New Horizons
by apollinariya rising
Summary: The war is over, and Hermione begins laying plans for her future.  Little does she expect that following her dreams will take her directly into the viper's nest. DH Epilogue ignored.
1. Prologue

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm  
For those of you to whom this title is brand new, welcome! I began writing this fic a little less than a year ago, but was quickly overwhelmed by life, and had to set it by the wayside. Since then, I've reapproached it and made some fairly major reconstruction. It seemed cleanest to start a new 'book' for it, as opposed to confusing readers – and myself – by over-editing the previous iteration. And so, let us begin!

I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Lord Voldemort, or any other aspect of JK Rowling's creation. I am happier this way, because, really, who wants to be the wealthiest woman in Britain? Anything that you recognize is hers, or a variation thereof. I shall try my best to give credit where credit is due in every way possible.  
This fanfic has one foot planted loosely in the realm of canon, and the other firmly in the realm of AU. I tried to only change the bits that really had to go (NOTE: this includes the entirety of the Epilogue to DH, which I think JK must have included on accident, Merlin bless her). There's also a new depth to magic in this fic. I think that the incredible Ms. Rowling herself wasn't prepared for where she'd go with the series, and what we are introduced in the first book(s) as being very light-hearted and typical wizardry gets increasingly deeper and more arcane as the story goes on. I choose to follow (and expand upon) the deeper magic that we find towards the end of the beloved series. You have been warned. **Lupin didn't die**. He's probably my favorite teacher in the whole of JK's creation, and I just didn't have it in me to let him go – and he's marvelous for insightful discussions that lead to epiphanies.

* * *

Looking back, the participants of the Final Battle agreed that it was very wrongly named. Voldemort had been defeated, as surely as the scar was now gone from Harry's head, but very few Death Eaters were killed or imprisoned as a result. In the confusion that followed Voldemort's death, they mostly made their way back to whatever bolt-holes they'd used after their Lord's first fall. The Aurory had their hands full for months, tracing down leads and trying – with little success – to prevent further bloodshed.

In a way, the war was more brutal after the death of Voldemort. He had inspired fear in his followers, and with his paranoia gone, the desperate and lawless men acted more riotously than before. They knew, after all, that their lives were ruined whether the Aurors caught up with them or not. Fugitives, they lived in hidden squalor – a steep fall, for many of them, from the glory they'd previously enjoyed – and therefore felt no real need to preserve their lives or reputations.

Some came forward, claiming the _Imperius _curse. Most of these would-be victims, however, bore the faint traces of the Dark Mark, and were summarily sentenced as willing accomplices in Voldemort's crimes. Members of the Order of the Phoenix wondered if it had been a part of Tom Riddle's plan all along to mark his subjects even after his own demise. "Can't have been" Harry said the first night this idea was brought up. "He never planned to die. Besides, I'd rather not think of any reasons we should be grateful to his Lordship."

Despite the dire predictions of Rita Skeeter and her ilk, the war did, eventually, wind down. Attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns slowed to a trickle, and then stopped altogether. The cells in Azkaban were slowly filled, and then quickly emptied as many of the prisoners fell subject to the Dementors' kisses. There was a memorial the week after the Final Battle, and a month after the Final Battle – and six months after, they buried the last of the men and women who had died for the cause of the Light.

The toll was tremendous. There was hardly a single family – even among the Purebloods – in Wizarding Britain that had not suffered losses. The Order was, naturally, among the hardest hit – and so long after the final burial, Hermione and her friends were faced daily with the loss of many close friends. Remus and his little son, Teddy, moved in with Harry at 12 Grimmauld Place – Remus was, apparently, unable to continue living in the little house that he and Tonks had shared before her death on the night of the Final Battle.

Although it seemed difficult to imagine, in the midst of the struggles and worries that surrounded the resolution of the Second Wizarding War, the wheel of life managed to turn forward – in many ways, unchanged. In the new school year, Hogwarts had a record number of students – with the arrival of new first years, the inclusion of all the Muggle-borns, and the return of almost the entire previous seventh years (the seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin males being conspicuous by their absence), the castle was restored to its bustling liveliness. In a way, it helped to off-set the losses. With dormitories and spare rooms so full, it was a little easier to ignore the pain of missing class-mates. There were no empty seats at the House Tables, which made it easier to live with the absence of dear friends.

There were a great many changes to the staff of Hogwarts in that year – new Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Muggle Studies professors had to be found, although Horace Slughorn eventually agreed to do McGonagall a favor and stay on for another year of teaching Potions.

The year passed in a blur for the majority of the school, as lives started to be re-built and events took their course. The weeks following the end of the spring term saw an extraordinary number of weddings. The youngest generation of adult wizards had looked to itself for the strength and encouragement to continue. In themselves they took their comfort, and new friendships and relationships blossomed. Many of them had been denied the joy of a carefree adolescence, and they seemed determined to make up for the joy they'd lost out on.

Neither Ron nor Harry married immediately, although everyone agreed that Harry might as well already be married to Ginny, so obvious was the nature of their attachment to each other. He was determined not to make a decision in the emotional aftermath of the war, brushing aside Ginny's derisive comments on the "aftermath" lasting more than a year. Together, Ron and Harry entered training for the Aurory immediately, not bothering to return to school to formalize their final year. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement seemed more than happy to take in two thirds of the Golden Trio without their N.E.W.T. scores, and would have happily taken Hermione as well, had she cared to skive off her seventh year. Being who she was, however, Hermione flatly refused that offer, though she made sure to burn no bridges, in case she decided that the Aurory was, in fact, the proper course for her to take.

Apparently alone of the entire double-batch of graduates, Hermione was unsure of what she wanted. She knew that she'd not be happy unless she furthered her education, but that was the extent of her plans. After graduation, she took to having weekly meetings with Headmistress McGonagall, where they discussed life and possible careers over tea.


	2. Chapter 1: Decisions

Chapter 1: Decisions

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

I don't own Hermione, Lupin, the Aurory, or any other aspect of JK Rowling's creation. Anything that you recognize is hers, or a variation thereof. I shall try my best to give credit where credit is due in every way possible.  
Also, Snape isn't really around for this chapter (or the next), but he'll get in there soon.  
Be warned: this chapter has a lot of exposition, as I'm trying to bridge the gap between the (non-epilogue) ending of DH and the start of this setting.

* * *

The tower rooms that were traditionally the Headmaster or Headmistress' chambers had changed, and in many ways the addition of the portrait of Albus Dumbledore was the least significant of the alterations (although that was, in and of itself, no small difference). The majority of the knickknacks and gadgets that Dumbledore had kept around in such great quantity had disappeared, for one thing. Two small tables remained, holding the little devices of which Dumbledore had been so fond, but the rest had been stored away. A few extra chairs occupied some of the newly freed space, and the desk had been moved so as to create the illusion that the room was not so glaringly empty, but the effect was half-hearted at best: the room had lost something, much like the castle and all its inhabitants had lost something. That knowledge was lessened, however, by the soft glow of afternoon light through the high windows, as well as the soft snoring of all the portraits' inhabitants. If Hermione concentrated very carefully on her tea and her former teacher, it was almost possible to pretend that things would all return to normal very soon.

"I think teaching is where I'm headed, for now. It may not be what I do forever – I'd really like to be part of the Ministry at some point, and continue my work with S.P.E.W. or something similar – but I also don't want to be grounded in the Ministry my whole life." Hermione stated, and as this was the third week in a row that she'd said the same thing, it seemed like something of a surety now. "I guess that school is what I'm best at, so why should I ever really leave it?" She grinned at her former professor. "But then, I don't think I'm ready to return to school so immediately. I feel really young to be teaching yet, and I think I'd like to have a Mastery to my credit before I start."

McGonagall smiled. "You certainly wouldn't need a Mastery to convince _me _of your abilities, my dear," she said with mock censure. "But I can see how it could be wise to take a year or two for advanced studies before returning to the castle."

"I don't know what I'd want to study, really," Hermione admitted shyly. She took a sip of tea as she pondered her options. "The thought of dedicating myself to a single subject is a little intimidating – not that I'd get tired of it, of course, but just…I don't want to limit myself."

"Nor should you," McGonagall agreed warmly. "In most cases, it's unusual for a Mastery to focus on one subject to the exclusion of others – it would lead to a certain shortsightedness in the community, don't you think? But I'd suggest you _take your time_ to think about what it is you'd like to put the most emphasis on, and then turn your thoughts to who you'd like to apprentice with."

"I'll do that," Hermione said slowly, already starting to mull over her possibilities.

"The choice is nothing you need to rush into," McGonagall said, waving away the tea service and waiting for Hermione to finish her cup, "and it can be tricky to back out of an apprenticeship if you find yourself having second thoughts." With that, she let the matter drop, and the two women talked idly until, with thanks and fond well-wishes, Hermione departed.

* * *

The question of her apprenticeship plagued Hermione in the following days as she turned over arguments for each of a half-dozen subjects in her head. McGonagall herself would have been Hermione's first choice for apprenticing under, but she couldn't see how taking on an apprentice would fit in the busy schedule of a Headmistress, so she didn't even bother with asking – the same held true for all the other professors at Hogwarts. Harry and Ron weren't helpful as sounding boards; neither could understand the idea of more years of academia, and urged her instead to join the Magical Law Enforcement. Finding them useless, she turned instead to Remus Lupin for advice.

Lupin and Harry shared the house at twelve Grimmauld Place, although Harry spent most of the week with Ron as they worked late into the night and rose early to head to the office each day. When Hermione arrived to talk to Lupin, the house was deserted. She set about making tea, and had barely had time to curl up with one of the ancient books from the Black family library before she heard the _pop_ of Lupin's arrival. "Hello, Remus!" she called, "I'm in the sitting room."

"Hermione!" the older man greeted her with a warm smile. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I was with Severus, and…" he trailed off a little uncertainly.

Despite the spy's widely acknowledge innocence, many people still held an intense dislike for Severus Snape. Lupin, convinced that he owed Snape a debt of gratitude after all the years that Snape had been brewing the Wolfsbane potion – not to mention all the years he'd spied for the Order – spent more time with the recuperating man than anyone else seemed willing to. Harry had told Hermione that Lupin made visits to Snape's home at least once a week – although Lupin rarely told Harry how those visits went. As Lupin was a reminder of the torments of Snape's teenaged years, Hermione couldn't imagine that Snape was thrilled to see him – but maybe something had changed, she reasoned.

"How is he?" she asked timidly, and Lupin relaxed, evidently glad that she did not share Ron's revulsion to even the mention of the ex-Death Eater. Hermione had never felt as ungraciously towards the man as her two best friends and had even come to respect him before he had apparently murdered Dumbledore, and Harry had (grudgingly) come to tolerate the idea that Snape was a human being rather than a plotting scumbag, but Ron categorically refused to admit that Snape was anything but the evil, greasy git of the dungeons.

"Better every day," he said cheerfully. "He was in his garden when I arrived. Just sitting, but he walked back into the house almost unaided. Said the healing process should speed up to where he's fit as a fiddle in another few weeks." As Hermione grinned, Lupin smiled in response. "So maybe those weren't his _exact _words," he allowed after a beat, "but he does seem satisfied with his recovery, now that he's away from St. Mungo's."

Hermione nodded, remembering the headlines that had been splashed across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ three months previously, when Snape had stormed – as best as a weak, injured man could storm – out of St. Mungo's, declaring himself 'perfectly capable of recuperating without the incompetent bumbling of ill-prepared, noisome busybodies.' Lupin had confided to Harry that Snape had spent the next week and a half after his display of temper totally bedridden, too weak to lift a spoon.

Severus Snape had been confined in St. Mungo's just after the Final Battle, when the newly-appeared portrait of Albus Dumbledore suggested to the beleaguered survivors that somebody check the Shrieking Shack to see if Snape was, in fact, _quite _dead. To everyone's great surprise, he was not – although it was a near thing. After Harry's protestations of Snape's innocence, the badly injured man was taken to St. Mungo's, though very few people held any real hope for his recovery. Despite Harry's impressive defense of the spy, most people had settled so comfortably into the habit of hating Snape that it made them a bit uncomfortable to suddenly feel beholden to him, so most folk chose not to – on top of which was the inescapable severity of the man's wounds. Nagini was no more poisonous than any other snake – but one advantage she had was that she was a truly _huge _snake, and fangs that size didn't need any poison at all to be entirely lethal. Slowly but surely, however, Dumbledore's killer and staunchest supporter had recovered. Within days of his return to consciousness, Lupin had been pleased to inform him that the Wizengamot had met during his 'indisposition' and, upon seeing the memories that Dumbledore had left behind and hearing the testimony of the Boy Who Lived, decided to find Snape _not _guilty. The former Potions Master had not at that point recovered the power of speech, but had instead looked at Lupin with a sort of wild incredulity in his eyes. After that, his progress had increased rapidly, until he could no longer stand the ministrations of the mediwizards and left in a huff.

"Anyway, my dear," Lupin continued, "what is it you're here for? It's the middle of the week, I can't say I'm expecting Harry back until Friday, so you might try Ron's if…" he paused as Hermione interrupted the suggestion with a shake of her head.

"I came looking to talk to you," she said. "I think I've decided to get my Mastery before I do anything else, and then I'm likely to teach for at least a few years."

"Splendid!" said Lupin. "I'm glad you've set a course for yourself. Hogwarts will, of course, be lucky to have such a gifted witch as yourself on its faculty."

Hermione blushed at Lupin's praise. "The only problem is that I'm not sure what it is I want to study most," she explained. "I've talked with McGonagall, and she's agreed that I'm likely advanced enough to teach any of several subjects, but I do want to have a Mastery before I go back to Hogwarts. I've been helping Harry, Ron, Lavander, and Parvati for years in Transfiguration and Charms, and Professors Babbling and Vector said they thought I could teach Ancient Runes or Arithmancy, but I'm just not sure what I want."

Lupin shook his head in mock horror. "What a dilemma," he said with false commiseration. Hermione batted a hand at him, smiling.

"If I were you,"' Lupin said after a moment's thought, "I'd be looking for the area with the greatest interaction with other branches of magic. Arithmancy is a wonderful subject, but its only truly close ties are with Astronomy and Divination – and I never much imagined that those would be your preferred subjects," Lupin teased.

"Do you know, I rather think you're _right_," Hermione responded with a sly smile. "The Headmistress also told me I should be very sure about what I pick. Not because I'll lose interested – it's just that I've been very used to being able to take a hand in almost everything that interested me at Hogwarts, but it's not quite so easy to pick up a second Mastery without severely delaying my career."

Lupin nodded thoughtfully.

"I think I _might_ look for a Potions Master," she added a little hesitantly. "Potions has got so many connections to other studies of magic," she explained, her words growing more sure, "Herbology, obviously – but healing, too, and there are potions that mimic the effects of different charms and transfiguring spells. There are so many spells that are strengthened by potions, or used in conjunction with them – it'd be really interesting, to learn more about all of that. It seems like it might be a nice way to cover so many different subjects."

Lupin nodded thoughtfully. "I'm told – I wouldn't know much for myself, I'm pretty graceless when it comes to brewing – that Potions gives a physical form to magical theory, that to have an understanding of the potion-making process is to have an understanding of the cycle of magic."

Hermione imagined that she knew who had described Potions in this way to Lupin – Snape tended to wax eloquent on his favorite subjects.

"I know you've received excellent marks in the class and your exams," Lupin added after a moment, "but I don't believe I've ever heard you talk about it with any particular fervor."

"Well, honestly," Hermione responded to the unasked question, "can you imagine anyone really talking about _enjoying _Potions around Harry and Ron? For them, it's bad enough that I enjoy studying at all, but to actually say that I _like _the subject, let alone the class, would've caused some sort of panic that I was being coerced by Slytherins."

"I suppose it might have, at that. Still, a Potions Mastery might be an excellent idea. It is, as you say, connected with many other branches of study, and there's certain to never be a lack of employment opportunities. Potions is much more practical than, say, Charms, at least as far as finding a job is concerned. Not to mention," Lupin added, "Hogwarts will be in need of a Potions Master – Mistress –" he amended with a smile "soon. Horace Slughorn's agreed to teach for another year for Minerva, and she might wrangle an additional year on top of that, but he's bent on enjoying his retirement."

"I hadn't thought of that," Hermione admitted, "but that's excellent. But who could I study under - there aren't many Potions Masters in the UK, are there?"

"Five – well, four now I suppose," Lupin said. "McKweon, I think his name was, got tangled up in business with some Death Eaters. I don't suppose you'd fancy studying in Azkaban."

"Not hardly," agreed Hermione. "Well!" she said brightly, standing to her feet and heading toward the fireplace, "Thank you very much for your help. I'll have to think on it a bit more, but I think that may be the solution."

Lupin smiled as he lit a small fire for her use. "I'm sure you'll make a good choice," he said, holding out the little pot of Floo powder. "Will you be over this weekend?"

"Of course," Hermione said, taking a pinch of powder, "I'll see you soon."

* * *

Talking with Lupin turned out to be the best guidance Hermione received. She broached the matter with her parents, but there was no way for them to help guide her down the proper path, and they mostly voiced empty reassurances that Hermione had always been a bright girl with a good head on her shoulders, and would do well no matter what she chose. When she met with Headmistress McGonagall that Friday, the kindly old woman seemed pleased with Hermione's tentative solution – and especially pleased with the thought of a new and fully-capable Potions professor. Hermione left that meeting full of resolve, and sat down immediately to write out letters to the UK Potions Masters (the ones who weren't in Azkaban).

The letters to her potential Masters caused Hermione no end of agony, as she wrote and re-wrote drafts to these formidable intellects that she had never met. The thought of approaching almost any of her former teachers requesting an apprenticeship had caused her no anxiety at all, and in fact the prospect seemed more appealing the more she worried over how best to present herself. In the end, it was with no small amount of consternation that she walked into Diagon Alley's owl post office and sent the three letters on their way.

She walked around Diagon Alley for a while, trying to divert her mind from the question of her apprenticeship. It was calming to watch the hustle and bustle of the magical world up and down the familiar street. During and immediately after the war, it had been so quiet and haunted – it was refreshing to see that life had returned to Diagon Alley, and that thought cheered her immensely. On top of that, it was the weekend, and Harry and Ron were expecting her to supper. Remus, it turned out, was a dab hand at cooking – a skill which Hermione sadly guessed was due to being discouraged from frequenting public restaurants for most of his life. That sad fact did nothing to tamper her enjoyment of his meals, however, and weekends at Grimmauld Place were fast becoming the highlight of Hermione's weeks. She picked up a few new books to occupy her mind while waiting for replies, and headed over to spend time with her friends.

Relaxing with a delicious meal, Hermione was content to listen and laugh as Ron regaled the table with stories of Auror training, gesturing wildly as he spoke. "Most of the other trainees don't know about Harry's Invisibility Cloak – or didn't, up 'til now –" he said, his voice thick through the pudding that he was shoveling in, heedless of manners, "you should've seen the look on Reggy's face when Harry turned up behind him! I was only Disillusioned, so he kind of had an eye on where I was – charmed a water hose so he could see where I was displacing water, see, and so he thought he had me pinned down pretty good, cast a detection charm around the room, but of course we know that those don't really affect Harry's Cloak, now do they? So Reggy's crowing, he's so _proud _of himself, only just as he's about to Stun me…"

Ron trailed off into laughter. Remus caught Hermione's eye and gave her a wink; she rolled her eyes in return. Ron loved nothing more than to share every minute of training with anyone who would listen – and while the stories were, often as not, very amusing, it was a little wearing to hear the tales every time she saw the boys. Reggy, she guessed from Ron's stories, was not overly bright – if Ron was to be believed, he was caught out in almost all their practical exercises by simple tricks. Harry had expressed concern over how long he'd last in the program, a concern which Ron seemed entirely unaffected by.

"So, Hermione," Lupin said after a comfortable silence, waving his hand to send the dishes into the kitchen, where they began cleaning themselves, "have you made up your mind?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, smiling nervously. "In fact I sent off three letters just this morning to the local Potions Masters."

"Excellent!" Lupin said, making to stand up from the table, "Let me get some butterbeer, and we'll drink to your good luck."

Ron ignored Lupin's words. "Hermione, you didn't tell us that you'd settled on Potions – hadn't really even heard you mention it more than a time or two. What changed?"

Hermione shrugged, repeating the reasons that she and Remus had hashed out on her previous visit.

"You'll be brilliant," Harry said, happy that his friend had figured out what she wanted.

After the war, it had been such a simple decision for Ron and himself, and for most of their year – people who had parents' footsteps to follow in, or a life-long interest to pursue, but for Hermione… Harry knew that she was too careful to plunge into anything, and suspected that she'd taken her NEWT year at Hogwarts as much to give herself time to consider her options as to have the satisfaction of receiving an Outstanding in all nine of her NEWT-level subjects.

In some ways, Harry envied her decision to take time to think about her possible futures. From his fourth year on, the desire to be an Auror had burned within him, but now, with barely more than six months to go in his training, Harry felt burdened by his choice. He was no longer certain that he could dedicate his life to catching dark wizards. Indeed, the defeat of Voldemort had started to seem like more than enough of that sort of thing – a future full of hunting down the Malfoys, Macnairs, and Lestranges of the world seemed unbelievably wearying. Harry was determined to stick out his training, but hoped more each day that some other viable option would present itself to him.

"And it'll prove that _not_ all Potions Masters are 'greasy gits,'" Lupin added with a smile.

"Still – Potions!" Ron insisted, shaking his head in apparent bafflement. "Never thought one of us would go down that road, eh? Hated it, we all did."

Hermione didn't bother to correct the assumption. Ron thought that since he and Harry had hated potions, she must have, too – but then, Ron assumed the same of Astronomy and History of Magic. Through the long years of their friendship, Hermione had been able to overlook the vaguely possessive air with which Ron seemed to regard her, unconsciously imposing his own likes and dislikes on her.

That possessiveness had lead to tension in the summer after Voldemort's defeat. During the Final Battle, Hermione had been so caught up in emotions, so scared and thrilled, that kissing Ron had seemed like the thing to do – the only problem being that Ron assumed that it had cemented whatever unspoken tensions ran between them. All summer long he'd been acting as if they were in an established relationship – a relationship that, Hermione admitted to herself, she would probably not have minded – if only she'd had any say in the matter. As it was, Hermione found the years of Ron's little presumptions threatening to overwhelm her. When she'd first aired the thought of going back to Hogwarts, Ron had flat-out denied the possibility – not only for himself, but for her as well.

"_We'd never planned on going back," _he had said, "_we've got all we want, don't we?"_

In the end, her return to Hogwarts had been precisely the distance she needed from Ron, and she told him that she didn't know if the effort necessary for a relationship crossing from London to Hogwarts was really something that they needed, with him going into the fast and furious training for Aurors, and her studying for NEWTs. He had agreed readily enough, and in the months that followed, their friendship had flourished where the so-called relationship had threatened to choke it out altogether.

Given the tempestuous nature of their friendship (and how could it be anything but tempestuous, when it had begun because of Ron's unkind words and a shared triumph over a mountain troll?) Hermione had been shocked by the seeming grace with which they went back to being a trio of best friends without the complications of a possible relationship – although part of her didn't want to close the door entirely. If Ron grew up a bit, she thought, their love might mature as well.

It was July now, and Hermione had been home from Hogwarts for a month with nary a word from Ron about rekindling the relationship. Hermione was grateful for this, as much for personal reasons as because it allowed her to spend more time with her parents. She, with the help and guidance of Professor McGonagall, had retrieved them from Australia and restored their memories over the Christmas holidays. The beleaguered couple had had months on their own to come to grips with the life they had been plunged into afresh before Hermione came home to live with them. McGonagall had insisted that it was better this way, and time had proved her right.

Hermione had told her parents only that the spell she was performing would help protect them, not that she was going to be completely reinventing their lives. The Grangers felt a little betrayed by this action on her part, and her assurances that it was the only way to really ensure their safety fell, by and large, on deaf ears.

"_I thought the whole point of this war you're fighting,"_ Hermione's mother had said on the first night of her restored memories, _"was that _some _wizards would deny Muggles like us any choice in our lives. How is what you did any better?"_

The words had stung, and Hermione had fled in tears. In the months of her spring term at Hogwarts, she had kept up a stream of cordial letters, and her parents' ire had cooled by the time she returned for the summer. Hermione's guilt over her machinations of her parents was driven out by the joy of living with them, the knowledge that her questionable actions had had the desired results – her parents were safe and whole.

"I think it's great," Harry told Ron, bringing Hermione out of her memories as Remus got butterbeer and passed bottles around. "If only so that Hogwarts gets a fair Potions professor for a time." Harry may have more or less forgiven Snape for many things, but he couldn't forget the many injudicious detentions and point losses that Gryffindors in general – and Harry in specific – had faced throughout the years.

Remus did not respond to Harry's comment, as he had learned that it was safer to just agree to disagree with his two younger companions when it came to the erstwhile Potions Master. He looked at Hermione a little curiously, though, as if he wished to ask her something.

"Well," he said brightly, his expression suddenly clearing, "here's to your hopeful future, Hermione. May it hold more than you can dream."

"Cheers," Harry and Hermione chimed in happily, while Ron worked to clear his bottle in the most rapid fashion possible.

It was many more hours before Hermione returned by Floo to her parents' house, and it was with great confidence and happiness that she went to sleep, daring to hope that the next day might bring her an answer to the owls she'd sent out.

* * *

Sunday was not, however, destined to be her lucky day: after the morning delivery of the _Sunday Prophet_, Hermione saw neither beak nor tail feather of any owls, and passed the day in quiet reflection and reading.

One letter was, however, returned just two days later. In it, Adair Pickhills, a rather aloof man with a supercilious air, from what she'd heard, informed her quite brusquely that he had no intention of taking on an apprentice, and if he did it would hardly be a girl as young as her – Potions was a serious undertaking, not to be trifled with by children.

The rejection stung Hermione. _Is there anyone of our generation,_ she thought angrily, _who is really a child anymore? _ She thought of the look on the littlest Creevey's face at the sight of his dead brother, thought of Ginny's haunted eyes whenever she thought of Fred, thought of little Teddy Lupin, growing up without a mother. She then wondered if tracking down Horcruxes _was_ the sort of thing that Pickhills expected of children – or living on the run for most of a year, or facing Voldemort and his followers. As a rule, Hermione did not rest on the laurels of the achievements that she and Ron had aided Harry in (_unlike the boys_, she thought with a touch of asperity, remembering how ecstatic they had both been to jump straight into the Aurory without the need of their NEWTs), but she had hoped, uncharacteristically, that their exploits would at least have lent a certain validity to her requests of the Potions Masters.

Hermione consoled herself. There were, after all, two more prospective Masters to hear from – and if she was honest with herself, she could always search for Masters on the Continent, although she hoped that she wouldn't need to.

That didn't stop her from needing company to distract her from her peevish thoughts that night – she found out from Remus that Harry and Ron had an afternoon's respite from training and would be eating at Grimmauld Place, so she once again found herself discussing her hopeful Potions apprenticeship over dinner with her friends.

"Any response to those letters?" Harry asked once Ron had finished sharing the tales of their latest exploits.

"Oh, yes," Hermione answered, heat flushing her face as she remembered Pickhills' dismissal. "I've had one reply – Adair Pickhills saying that silly little girls oughtn't mess with a science and art as _refined _and _serious_ as Potion-making." She grimaced, and was gratified to see the darkened faces of her friends.

"I'll hex him if you like," Ron offered. "What was that about Potions Masters not being stuck-up gits, Remus?"

Lupin shook his head at Ron's words – the two couldn't reach any sort of agreement or understanding where Severus Snape was concerned. "Severus might not be terribly nice," Lupin said, "but you might show a little more understanding through someone who has been dealt such a raw hand."

Ron scoffed a bit at this, but apparently felt that it was more important to continue shoveling food in his mouth than to argue the point with Remus.

* * *

It was a week before Hermione heard a response to another of her letters. Quora Rossini, an Italian witch who had taken up residence in Wales, had sent a very polite missive, thanking Hermione for her interest. In it she wished Hermione the best of luck with her studies, commented that it was a shame that McKweon had been sent to prison, as he'd been looking for an apprentice, and said that it was with extreme regret that she admitted she wasn't looking for an apprentice. She was preparing to be married, and the two-year honeymoon she had planned in America would ill benefit an apprentice. Rossini noted that, in two years time, if Hermione was still in need of her apprenticeship, she would be more than delighted to guide her down the delicate path of potioneering.

Distressed though she was over the lack of result from two of her three letters, Hermione was gratified by the tone of Rossini's refusal. It was a balm for the resentment that Pickhills' letter had stirred in her. If she ended up needing to Master in something else, Hermione thought that it maybe wouldn't be so bad to come back to the idea of an apprenticeship with Rossini in a few years' time. However, her original plan had not yet failed: it was with supreme optimism that Hermione waited for her third response, refusing to acknowledge any thought of failure.

Another week passed, and despite her firm intentions, Hermione began to worry. Twice she tried to pay Lupin a weekday visit, to soothe her fears or discuss other options, but the house was empty. The third time that she appeared in the parlour of Grimmauld Place, she decided to wait it out. Once again, she chose a book from the Black family library, and waited patiently.

So absorbed in her reading was she, that Remus had Apparated, walked into the kitchen, sat down across from her, and called her name twice before Hermione looked up.

"It isn't quite comforting to know that I can't compete with the writings of a long-dead historian," Remus said with a laugh at the shocked expression on Hermione's face upon finding out that she had company.

"Theorist," Hermione corrected absently, "but don't let it hurt you." Carefully marking her place in the book, Hermione offered him some tea.

The two sat companionably for a while, exchanging pleasantries and small talk. With her parents out of the house every day at their practice, days could be lonely for Hermione – and, she imagined, quite lonely for Remus as well, if he was turning to Snape for company.

"Where's Teddy?" Hermione asked, suddenly aware that she hadn't seen the baby in quite some time.

"Oh, Arabella Figg takes care of him most afternoons, and whenever I'm visiting Severus," Lupin said, shifting a bit uncomfortably.

Hermione realized, with a pang of annoyance at her own startling lack of tact, that it was likely terribly painful for Lupin to spend too much time with little Teddy, who was a Metamorphmagus like his mother. Remus had only recently come out of the mourning that had begun on the night of the Final Battle; the night of Nymphadora Lupin's death.

"That's kind of her," Hermione said hesitantly.

"She says it almost makes up for never having any of her own," Lupin responded with a bleak smile. Although Hermione would never say it to the wounded man, she found that somehow poetic – a son who'd never know his mother, and a woman who'd never known the joy of children, finding comfort in each other. It was the way of life for wizarding Britain in the vacuum left by those who had died fighting Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

"But what brings you here?" Lupin asked after a moment of staring at the dregs in his cup, making an effort to look cheerful.

Hermione suddenly felt incredibly selfish, and no longer felt the desire to talk about her worries over her apprenticeship. Instead, she patted Lupin's arm a little awkwardly, before refreshing both of their tea. "Just checking on you," she said, her voice intentionally light. "I came by a time or two earlier in the week and didn't find you – wanted to make sure everything was well."

It wasn't quite a lie, really, and Remus seemed to take it at face value, giving her a true smile. "Thank you," he said simply. "I've been out seeking work. There's a great deal more tolerance towards werewolves now, for some reason." \

He winked at her, both of them knowing full well that one of Shacklebolt's firsts acts as elected Minister had been to repeal some of the restrictions on werewolves. He had told Lupin that he'd liked to have repealed all of them, but there were those like Fenrir Greyback's followers who would have taken advantage of such sudden leniency.

"But that's wonderful!" exclaimed Hermione. "Good on you – what sort of job are you looking for?"

"Do you know, I'm not feeling tremendously picky," Remus said. The smile still lingered in his face and eyes, but Hermione knew what he meant: after years of being denied any and all employment, save for a few lucky, ill-paying jobs here and there and a one-year stint at Hogwarts, Lupin didn't care _what _job he had, so long as it paid decent wages and wasn't demeaning. Hermione remembered, with a pang of indignation at the injustices of the world, that at some point a few of the taverns in Diagon Ally had hired Lupin on to do sweeping and cleaning – with a daily meal of table-scraps for his pay.

They chatted amiably about his prospects and the state of the wizarding community, and once they'd entirely emptied out the teapot, Hermione bid him a fond farewell.

Despite the fact that they never mentioned the question of her apprenticeship, Hermione's visit to Lupin had done precisely what she had hoped – it had allayed her fears. When she returned to her parents' for dinner, it was with a very light heart.

That light heart was made even more buoyant the next morning when the post arrived. A beautiful owl brought an ornately decorated envelope, bearing an elaborate crest surrounding the letters _A _and _E_. With a start, Hermione realized that this must be from the third of her hopeful Masters – Arth Eagleton, who lived in the Western Isles.

"Help yourself," Hermione told the owl absently, pushing the remainder of her plate toward it. The owl gave her a regal look before deigning to snap up some dry toast.

Hands trembling and heart pounding erratically, Hermione opened the envelope.

_Dear Miss Granger, _the ornate script read

_It was with great pleasure that I received your request for an apprenticeship. The O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores that you sent along look very promising – it is pleasing to know that a young witch so talented is eager to join the elite ranks of Master Potionmakers. I am amenable to taking on an apprentice, and yet refuse to do so without having met face-to-face. The bonds between an apprentice and master being what they are, it is hardly sensible to sign a contract without a slight idea of to whom it is we will be binding ourselves. If you are agreeable, then, please feel free to call upon me between the hours of ten and eleven tomorrow morning. Simply Flooing to "The Eagle's Nest" will bring you to the proper location.[1]_

_My owl awaits your response._

_Warmest Regards,  
_Arth Eagleton

For a moment, Hermione could neither breathe nor blink, hardly able to fathom her luck. After a frozen moment, she dashed madly to her desk to pen a quick response. Affirming their appointment, she tied her hasty missive to the leg of the owl, who took off into the morning air. Following its flight with her eyes, Hermione was sure the world had never looked so lovely.

Cheered by the prospects of what tomorrow might bring, Hermione sent word to Remus by way of a modified banishing charm. For someone who didn't have an owl, it was a very convenient little charm, but Hermione wished she had a way to check to see if her notes actually landed in their intended location. She sent a similar note to Ron's flat, although she resigned herself to the fact that, given the level of untidiness that Ron had always shown, it was unlikely that he would ever take note of her missive. Her news shared, Hermione set about cleaning and straightening the house, keeping her hands occupied as her mind raced ahead into the future.

When her parents returned that evening, it was to a joyous daughter and a hot meal. She had kept them up to date in regards to her plans for the future, but it was only now that she had a confirmed appointment to talk about an apprenticeship that she really went in-depth about her hopes concerning a Potions Mastery. Her parents were supportive, as she knew they would be, but unable to show any real enthusiasm for what she was talking about.

To a certain degree, that made sense to Hermione. Despite her best efforts to explain, Mr. and Mrs. Granger didn't have any practical grasp on what potion-making was all about, and it was beyond them as to how it could support their daughter financially. For all that they had been through and learned about the wizarding world, Hermione was aware that her parents still saw magic as being relatively insubstantial, and she knew that they questioned the wisdom of supporting herself in the magical world, rather than finding some "real-world" job. She could not change their minds about that in one night's conversation, though, so she didn't allow her spirits to be dampened when her parents could not match her excitement.

All too soon, her parents were saying goodnight and heading to bed, leaving Hermione alone with her nerves and excitement. Regardless of her fervent desire to make a good impression the next morning – or perhaps because of it – the night was slow and largely sleepless for Hermione. When dawn curled its golden rays between the gaps in her curtains, she gave up, rising to shower and prepare breakfast for her parents. They wished her luck as they headed out the door, leaving Hermione quite alone and quite unsure of how best to pass the time before she was due to arrive at the Eagle's Nest.

In times like these, Hermione rather resented the ease of magic. Were she a Muggle, she would have at least the car ride to kill some of her time – but with Floo travel being almost instantaneous, there wasn't even the distraction of transit to ease the wait.

As ten o'clock drew nearer, Hermione became increasingly grateful that she'd told Eagleton to expect her promptly at ten. After a quick inspection to make sure that she looked as well put-together as possible, Hermione threw some Floor powder into the fire, calling out "The Eagle's Nest!" with an authority that she certainly didn't feel.

* * *

**[1] – **Although I'm not sure that there's a canon answer for how close one has to be for Floo travel to work, I'm going to say that, on a landmass as relatively small as the European Continent, anywhere in the UK is going to be connected. This is supported by the fact that characters Floo travel Hogwarts to the Burrow (OotP), and Harry uses Hogwarts' fire to Floo Grimmauld Place to search for Sirius (OotP). This also makes sense since the Floo Network is Ministry-regulated, and a single Ministry for Magic seems to preside over the whole of the UK.

A/N - So that's chapter one handled! For the next month, I'll hopefully be updating one to two times a week. This is one of the busier parts of the year for me, but at least weekly updates are certain.


	3. Chapter 2: Injured Pride & Prejudice

Chapter 2: Injured Pride and Prejudice

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

I don't own Lupin, wands, the Floo Network, or any other aspect of JK Rowling's creation. Instead, I bring them out to play since she has graciously allowed us to borrow her genius. Anything that you recognize is hers, or a variation thereof. I shall try my best to give credit where credit is due in every way possible.  
We'll all get our Snape fixes soon, I promise – bear with me please. Cheers!

* * *

The ornately decorated foyer into which Hermione stumbled served to make her keenly aware of the graceless nature of her arrival: covered in soot, coughing, and wildly off-balance, she felt entirely at odds with the opulent setting she had just entered. _I suppose I could've put some of my time yesterday to good use cleaning out the chimney_, she thought wryly.

Looking about anxiously and trying to covertly beat off some of the dust, Hermione saw a house-elf approaching her, taking in her sooty appearance with evident disdain. Taking a closer look, Hermione was hard-pressed not to do a double-take: the little elf appeared to be wearing clothes. Hope surged within her as Hermione thought that she may have, at long last, found someone quite in agreement with her notions about the treatment of house-elves.

"Hello," Hermione said as pleasantly as she could.

Before responding, the elf snapped her fingers, nodding in approval as the soot covering Hermione's clothes, hair, and skin vanished. Under that critical gaze and surrounded as she was by such rich surroundings, Hermione was keenly aware that her student robes did her no particular favors in terms of professionalism or attractiveness. Regardless of how this interview went, she resolved to expand her wardrobe very soon.

"Welcome, Miss," the elf squeaked, bowing low. "Master Arth has sent Orry to welcome Miss to the Eagle's Nest." The elf straightened up from her bow, her large blue eyes much less reproachful now that Orry evidently felt that Hermione was presentable. "Is there anything that Miss would like Orry to fetch? Any refreshments or comforts?"

"Oh, no thank you, Orry," Hermione assured the little elf. "If he's ready for me, I'd like to meet your master."

"Very well, Miss," agreed Orry.

With another bow, she lead Hermione out of the spacious foyer, along a richly embellished hall, and into a beautiful parlour. The mahogany floor was covered almost entirely by a creamy space rug, and all the furniture was an ivory shade with rich, chocolate-colored accents. An entire wall was made of windows, curtained with a thick, gauzy fabric which gentled the late morning light into a diffused brilliance that made the room seem to glow with inner warmth. Hermione was sure she'd never seen such tasteful opulence. What little she had seen of the Malfoy estate had been grossly overstated – besides which, Hermione had hardly been in a position to appreciate the décor when she had been in Malfoy Mansion.

The man she could only assume was Arth Eagleton had been sitting primly in an overstuffed grandfather chair and rose to greet her as she had entered the room. He had about him the air of an aristocrat – and the trappings, bedecked as he was in a dark charcoal suit with a black-and-burgundy frock coat. Leaning against his chair was a highly polished cane topped with a golden eagle – Hermione found herself once again making a comparison to the Malfoys as Lucius' serpent-topped cane came to mind, and she was grateful that the comparisons were casting Eagleton in the more favorable light. Certainly, the smile he gave her as she stepped forward was warmer than anything that Hermione thought Lucius could be capable of.

"Master Arth, presenting Miss Hermione Granger," Orry said in her high little voice. "Miss Granger, presenting my Master, Arth Eagleton."

"Thank you, Orry," Eagleton said, his eyes never leaving Hermione's. "Bring us tea."

The little elf bowed low, and vanished with a crack.

As he gestured her into a chair that matched his own, Hermione surveyed the man. He looked quite old, but Hermione had never really had a knack for guessing wizard's ages, still unsure as to how their longer life-span affected their appearance. His good-natured face was lined with wrinkles, but they gave him a friendly look – as if he'd earned them by smiling for his whole life. His pure white hair was just longer than his shoulders, and his eyes were all but hidden under bushy white brows. On the whole, the effect was that of a kindly favorite uncle.

"Miss Granger," he said in a warm, clear voice, "Such a pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine," Hermione demurred, smiling as he gestured her into the chair nearest his own.

They lapsed into small talk that lasted until Orry returned with tea, which Hermione accepted gratefully. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but her nerves from earlier in the morning had left her quite aflutter, and tea, as every good Englishman and woman knows, would solve any indisposition.

"Now, I hear that you have just graduated from Hogwarts?" asked Eagleton after an appropriate amount of time had been spent on the pleasantries.

"Yes, sir."

"But aren't you a year past the normal age for graduation?" he asked mildly.

"Well yes, but what was supposed to be my last school year was rather interrupted," Hermione said cautiously. "I'm not sure how much you know about the last year of Voldemort's second war?"

Having spent the last year in Hogwarts, living in the direct results of the war, it was easy to assume that the entire world was aware of the events surrounding Voldemort's downfall. She didn't like the attention that was so frequently focused on her as a part of the Golden Trio, but she hadn't thought that needing to 'repeat' her seventh year at Hogwarts would be called into question.

"Not much," the man said primly. "My family and I refused the so-called Lord Voldemort's overtures during his initial rise to power and left the country, so when the rumors of his return began about five years ago, we found it prudent to relocate to the Continent until the situation became clearer. Circumspection seemed wise."

"Wise indeed," Hermione agreed. How few families were as lucky as the Eagletons, she thought sadly. "I'm a little surprised that it was as easy as moving," she said hesitantly, "Voldemort never really struck me as the kind to take rejection easily."

There was a faint look of smugness on Eagleton's face as he responded. "Well," he said amicably, "he was hardly going to go out of his way to spill Pure blood, was he? Lord Voldemort was never eager to hunt down the Pure of blood – nor were his followers. Even when they had nothing to lose, members of his inner circle were careful not to kill the Longbottom couple, if what I've heard is true."

There was a catch in Hermione's throat at the thought of anyone saying that Bellatrix Lestrange had been 'careful' as she tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity; but she swallowed past it and attempted to return the conversation to safer waters.

"Either way, I'm glad that you were kept safe," she said as lightly as she could, hoping her voice didn't sound as strained as she felt. "The last year of Voldemort's reign, not to mention the presence of Death Eaters in the school, made it difficult to finish the year properly, so all seventh years were invited back this past year."

"I see," said Eagleton, and the talk turned to her grades and how she found her classes.

Almost an hour had passed after the mention of Voldemort, and Hermione was starting to feel that the meeting would end in a contract-signing.

"Now, as to your family," Eagleton said, after they had finished agreeing that Slughorn was likeable enough in his own way, but far too sure of his own influence. "Are you related to the Dagworth-Grangers?"

Hermione, who had heard this question before from Slughorn himself, smiled as she shook her head. "No, sir."

"The family Von Grange in Germany?" he asked, a flicker of a frown marring his aristocratic features.

"No, sir," Hermione said again. "I'm not related to any notable wizarding family – actually, I've no wizarding family at all."

Eagleton looked taken aback. "But you're – you're _Muggleborn_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes sir," responded Hermione, feeling heat in her cheeks at his reaction.

"And you did so very well in all of your tests?" he asked suspiciously.

"_Yes,_ sir," she said with a hint of steel in her tone, "And I'd remind you that the faction of Wizarding Britain that has no use for _Mudbloods_ just lost a war."

Instantly, Eagleton drew himself up, his eyes sparking with anger. "My dear girl!" he exclaimed. "Never has such a vulgarity been used in this house! What insolence! What baseness!"

It was Hermione's turn to be taken by surprise. "I – but I thought –" she stammered, unsure of how to give voice to her astonishment. "I don't understand - h-how can you think that way? You said you refused Voldemort! But then you acted the same way as any of his - his followers…"

"Miss Granger," he hissed with no little force, "not everyone who values wizarding purity is as vulgar and crass as those fools who styled themselves _Death Eaters_. I refused Lord Voldemort because violence is not the answer to the Muggle problem – we need to instruct and teach them, rather than enslaving and killing them! To simply _assume _ that I shared the morals of those animals, to _think_ that I would abide such foul language is the _height_ of presumption!"

Hermione simply stared, aware that she was being both impolite and unimpressive, and suddenly not caring.

"I – I beg your pardon, sir," she said at length. "I did not mean to…give offense."

"Pardon granted," Eagleton responded curtly, and seemed to relax, although there was a hint at his displeasure in the purse of his lips.

An awkward silence passed, interrupted by the clinking of china as Orry came and removed the tea service.

"Perhaps," Eagleton said gently, "this apprenticeship is not the best idea."

"I agree," Hermione said, biting back on harsher words. She could never allow herself to study under someone who considered Muggles and Muggle-borns to be a 'problem.' Watching Orry retreat, Hermione felt a little sick, given that she'd thought the elf's clothes were a sign of like-mindedness.

"Is Orry free?" she asked impulsively, although half a second later she wished she could retract her words. If the elf was free, it was certainly no concern of hers. And if, somehow, she wasn't, then the inquiry would only serve to make matters more tense.

"No," Arth replied with a disbelieving look. To his credit, Hermione had been half-expecting the man to say 'of course not,' so such a gentle answer was a boon.

"But she wears clothes," Hermione said, by way of explaining her reasoning.

"Ah," the old man replied, nodding contemplatively. "It is only the act of _giving _a house-elf clothes that frees them," he explained. "Orry was instructed to make those for herself, as all of our elves do. It certainly wouldn't do for them to parade around in pillow covers or rags."

"I see," Hermione said, letting the matter drop. In her heart of hearts, she lamented the fact that it felt, at times, as if there would _always _be knowledge that purebloods and half-bloods took for granted.

Not wanting to leave on a sour note, Hermione made a few earnest compliments of the appointment of the house, which Eagleton accepted with genuine pleasure. As that thread of conversation died away, however, Hermione felt that it was time to move on from what could not be a fruitful meeting.

Rising a little stiffly, Hermione gave the best smile she could muster. "I appreciate your time, Mr. Eagleton."

Eagleton held out a lordly hand. "A pleasure, Miss Granger," he said with every appearance of sincerity. Hermione was once again reminded of the two-faced Lucius Malfoy, and bitterly resented every charitable thought she'd held toward Eagleton.

"Good day," she said as Orry came to lead her from the room.

"Master Arth thanks Miss for her visit," Orry said cooly, holding a golden pot filled with Floo powder for Hermione to use.

Accepting a pinch, Hermione gave the elf the warmest smile she could muster. "Thank your Master for his hospitality," she said, and returned to her parents' house.

* * *

When Hermione's parents returned from their dental office, they found their daughter sitting quite still at the dinner table. She looked up at them with a placid expression and asked how their days went, listened politely, and left the room before they could ask her about her interview.

They found that there was no need to ask, however, when they went into their back yard and saw an entire set of chinaware shattered against a wall, tiny shards littering the ground like so much spent confetti.

With a strangled cry, Mrs. Granger ran into her kitchen and flung open the cabinets. She was both surprised and thrilled to find all of her china in perfect condition, despite having been sure that she'd seen her pattern on the shards outside.

"That's one of the more convenient things about being a witch," Hermione commented from the hall, accurately interpreting the look of delight and confusion on her mother's face. "I replicated your china set." She made her way into the back yard, where she Vanished all of the shards.

"I didn't really mean to leave that lying about," Hermione said apologetically. "I'll talk to you more about the interview later, but I really have to go right now," she added. "It…it didn't go well."

At that moment, Hermione could not face a discussion with her parents about being denied an apprenticeship essentially because they, her parents, were non-magical. If she were honest with herself, she'd admit that if she'd handled the situation a little more gracefully, it might not have turned into such a disaster, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to study under a man as biased as Arth Eagleton, no matter how kindly he was, or how passive he was about his prejudice.

It wasn't that Hermione blamed her parents in any way – she was, as she'd made such a big point of during the last years of Voldemort's reign, proud of her Muggle heritage, proud of what she'd accomplished despite being at an eleven-year disadvantage under the majority of her classmates, proud of her parents' dentistry practice and total lack of magic. However, she couldn't look them in the eyes and tell them of her exchange with Eagleton – not yet.

Through her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had very carefully said little to her parents about the bias she met because of her blood status. She passed Malfoy off as a general bully, rather than someone who targeted her, specifically, because of her parentage. She was forthright about Voldemort's views on blood purity, of course, but tried to make it seem as if that put her in no real danger – which, she rationalized, was true enough, since Voldemort had cared much more about the fact that she was helping Harry than that she was a Muggle-born.

She Apparated to Grimmauld Place, grateful that it was the weekend and that she was therefore likely to find all three of the men she wanted most to talk to in one place.

Finding them all seated in the parlour, Hermione sat herself with very little in the way of greetings.

"How'd it go, then?" asked Ron in his usually oblivious manner.

Hermione knew her own behaviours well enough to know that, if the interview had gone well, she'd have fairly bounced into the room with her enthusiasm to share the good news. She hoped that this was simply Ron's way of showing interest – and then wondered, idly, if Ron had in fact seen the note she sent, or if Remus had had to inform the boys of her visit.

"It was – well, a bit of a fiasco," Hermione admitted, and she proceeded to recount their conversation.

"…and after all that, he said it was 'a _pleasure_' as if nothing at all had happened!" she finished her re-telling.

"What a bastard," Ron said with a smug tone. "You're well shot of him, aren't you?"

"He's missed out on a good apprentice," Harry said. "You just wait, Hermione – a few years, and you'll be bringing in the galleons with patents, and whoever _does_ get you as an apprentice is going to be feeling right lucky about it."

Hermione gave her friends a grateful smile.

"I guess I was just so…shocked…that someone as nice as Mr. Eagleton was could still hold such an obtuse bias."

"It isn't that surprising, Hermione," Lupin said gravely. "Not everyone who values blood purity supported Riddle, just like not all of his supporters were really that concerned with blood purity. There will, unfortunately, always be wizards with that sort of prejudice."

"You're not supporting Eagleton too, are you Remus?" Ron asked with a touch of asperity, "First you're saying that Snape's a nice guy, now you're excusing this git?"

"I'm neither supporting nor excusing Eagleton's prejudice, Ron," Lupin said wearily. "I am simply trying to help Hermione understand that not all blood prejudice was wiped out with Riddle."

Hermione nodded in understanding, hoping to prevent a retort from Ron. "I guess I knew that, it was just so unexpected. I haven't really met anyone who didn't espouse the Death Eater view of it- people like Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange. I was pretty angry at first, but I guess that the fact that he refused Voldemort actually does say something of his character. I imagine that when he was in the height of his power the first time around, he was pretty difficult to say 'no' to, even _with_ any protection that being Pure-blooded might have offered him."

"The Eagleton family did a very brave thing by sticking to their principles," Lupin agreed.

"Can't have been that brave, can he now?" asked Ron, "Running away like that? Bit of a coward, if you ask me."

"Arth Eagleton denied Riddle something he wanted very much – a highly skilled Potions Master. I highly doubt that he was as safe as he lets on, simply moving to another country. By absenting himself, he made sure that he was out of the way of the Imperius curse, or any threats or bribes that would have coerced him to work with Riddle – thereby depriving him of a very potent weapon indeed." Lupin was quite for a moment, giving Hermione an inscrutable look, appearing to be on the verge of saying something, but after a time, he simply shook his head and directed the conversation to happier topics. Before it passed, the look reminded her of the way Remus had looked at her a few nights earlier, and Hermione wondered what it was that was giving her friend pause. Since he made no effort to pursue the matter though, she allowed the conversation to move on.

Before she returned home that night, Hermione spoke with Lupin about coming by early in the coming week to talk about other possible options, now that the three UK Masters had ruled themselves out.

* * *

"I guess my next step is to write to Masters on the Continent," Hermione told Lupin that Tuesday. She bit into her sandwich, a pensive look on her face. "I'd rather not travel any further than necessary, but I suppose I could start with the Potions Masters in France, and work my way out from there."

Lupin was already shaking his head. "Hermione," he said, a touch of humor in his voice, "In your eight years of knowing wizards, have you learned nothing of our behavior? Have the protections around Hogwarts, around the World Cup pitch, or around this very house taught you _nothing_ about how suspicious wizards are, by nature?"

This startled Hermione. "What's to be suspicious of?" she asked blankly.

"The idea of study abroad – actual, sustained study, not just a holiday of some sorts - isn't terribly popular with wizards. It isn't precisely un-heard of, but neither is it encouraged. You'll be met, at best, with disinterest – there are undoubtedly bright young French witches and wizards seeking apprenticeships, so why should they look to a British girl? After that will be suspicion – why else would a British witch want to study under a Frenchman, if not to pry into the secrets of the French Minsitry, or to recruit foreign support for some power play? It's unlikely, but you may even meet trouble because of our war – after Grindewald's defeat so long ago, Riddle was the only Dark Lord to pose much any threat at all, and the rest of Europe tends to view him as, well, our fault." As he ticked off excuses, Hermione's heart sank.

"I've got to at least try, haven't I?" Hermione asked timidly.

"I don't doubt that you do – for your own satisfaction, if nothing else," allowed Lupin with a smile. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "I don't see why you turned to the Continent for answers without first exhausting all your local options."

"I – but – I did!" Hermione argued, caught off-guard by Lupin's statement. "You said yourself that the only other Master was in Azkaban, and you were right – I _don't_ fancy studying in prison."

"I _said_ that there were four Potions Masters, minus McKweon. You only wrote to three."

Suddenly, the source of Lupin's questioning looks was very evident.

"But the fourth was – Professor Snape, right? Of _course _ I wouldn't have written to him!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I don't see why you think it's so obvious that you wouldn't ask him," Lupin said mildly. "After all, you yourself have defended his teaching ability – and his character. You already know that, even if you don't like him very much, he is a trustworthy man, and one who will go far out of his way to protect those that he feels responsible for. You can't question, surely, his ability in his field, can you? After all, after asking Arth Eagleton – who was first on the list, I imagine, because of his blood status – it was Severus that Riddle turned to for his potions. Whatever else his faults may have been," Lupin finished with a smile, "Riddle wanted only the most reliably talented man for the job."

"Voldemort asked Professor Snape because he was interested in the Dark Arts!" Hermione countered.

"Severus _agreed_ because he was interested in the Dark Arts," corrected Lupin, "but I hardly think that Riddle really cared about what a poor half-blood was or was not interested in, except where it was directly helpful to him."

"That's beside the point," Hermione said, pushing her defeat aside with a wave of her hand, "Professor Snape is ill, he can't mentor anyone."

"I told you more than a week ago that he was well on his way to full recovery," Lupin said briskly. "Only weeks away, in fact. He gets stronger every day."

"He won't want to teach me."

"At least give the man a _chance_ to refuse you," he responded, exasperation evident in his voice, "rather than doing it for him!"

Hermione paused, momentarily out of arguments. Lupin simply looked at her, his curiosity at her resistance evident.

"I'm going to write to some foreign Potions Masters," Hermione said at length, "I'll give it three weeks."

"And then?" prompted Lupin.

"And then I'll talk to the Professor," Hermione said, conceding defeat.

* * *

As she copied out letters to different Masters in mainland Europe, Hermione considered Lupin's suggestion.

When the prospect of attempting a Mastery of any sort, let alone Potions, had first come up, Hermione hadn't even considered asking Severus Snape. It wasn't that she had dismissed the notion out of hand – it had simply never occurred to her. At first, he'd been almost comatose in St. Mungo's, and was therefore hardly a likely candidate. After his recuperation and release, though, it really _would_ have been best to give the man some consideration. She couldn't imagine a scenario that would lead to the man taking on a Gryffindor as an apprentice, and the notion seemed so unlikely that she was hardly surprised it hadn't suggested itself to her.

Everything Lupin had said, Hermione knew, was correct. In the Final Battle, Severus had once and for all proven that he was trustworthy – or had been, for about as long as Hermione had been alive. His skill was perfect, and his dedication to the art of potion-making was total.

For all of that, though, Hermione couldn't imagine asking him for the favor of an apprenticeship. _"Hello there, Professor, remember me? I'm the know-it-all that plagued your class for six years, the silly girl who suspected you of betraying Dumbledore to help Voldemort in her first year, stole from your private stores in second year, managed to knock you unconscious in her third year, saw you reveal yourself as a Death Eater in fourth year, beat your precious Draco Malfoy – and the entire rest of the class – in our Potions O.W.L. in fifth year, refused to believe in you after you obeyed Dumbledore's orders in sixth year, and heard all about the private memories you shared with Harry – not to mention watching you _die_ without doing anything to help – in what should have been my seventh year. I'd really like to be your apprentice, so would you mind taking me under your wing for the next two to three years?" _ She shook her head with a laugh at the thought.

It might be a question of his personality, she thought, but she had reason to hope that the circumstances would be different enough that the Professor wouldn't feel the need to be _entirely _horrible to her. She was an adult, she was _not_ a dunderhead but was in fact quite skilled in potion-making, she gave him considerably more respect than most other students, and Snape was no longer a double-spy dancing attendance on Voldemort and keeping up the appearance of a Death Eater. Those changes, she hoped, would be enough to merit more favorable treatment.

Hermione admitted to herself that one of the most daunting roadblocks, if she were to decide to ask Professor Snape to grant her an apprenticeship, was the thought of how Harry and Ron would react, Ron more so than Harry.

It had been mainly Harry's efforts that had convinced the Aurory and the Wizengamot of Snape's innocence and usefulness to the side of the Light. When she'd questioned Harry about his staunch defense of the professor that he had quite frequently admitted to hating, Harry had shook his head with a smile. _"I know it's weird,"_ he had said, _"but I just don't reckon it's right for him to have to deal with any more of the same suspicions he's dealt with for the last twenty years. And, besides," _he'd added after a moment, "_he knew my mum – knew her really well and, well, there aren't that many people who can say that left. I guess I don't think she'd appreciate it if I just stood by while her first friend in the wizarding world got punished, would she?"_ Hermione had been so terribly proud of Harry at that moment, and had simply enveloped him in a tight embrace, unable to speak past the suspicious tightness in her throat.

But Ron…Even if he, grudgingly, admitted that Snape had been on the right side, Ron refused to think well of their former Professor, insisting that 'once a greasy git, always a greasy git,' and once saying (although an irate Harry and Hermione had instantly forced him to take the statement back) that the world would be a happier place if he'd bled to death in the Shrieking Shack – either during the Final Battle, or when he'd been lured there by Sirius so many years ago. Ron would not take well to Hermione's apprenticeship, if it came about.

_It doesn't matter, though_, she thought firmly, _because one of these foreign Masters is going to accept me, and I'll never have to ask Professor Snape._

* * *

Hermione was able to receive her first four rejections with equanimity, given that they constituted just a portion of her potential Masters.

When five more negative answers joined them over the next week, however, she began to be discouraged. Just seven more options, seven more chances to pursue her chosen course of study, without resorting to travel to America or Asia, neither of which appealed greatly to Hermione.

It galled her that only two of the responses she'd received cited what she considered a justifiable reason to deny her – one man from France already had an apprentice, and an elderly witch in Munich did not wish to take on an apprentice, as she was enjoying her retirement. Almost all the rest had used some variant of the different responses that Lupin had rejected – some veiling their mistrust better than others. The last response had been an exemplar of brevity, reading merely: _Received your request. Please consider this my rejection. All the best, Geraldine Fortescue-Depaul. _

Rejected and dejected, Hermione visited Harry at Grimmauld Place on the Sunday afternoon following Fortescue-Depaul's curt message. Ron was spending the afternoon in London, though Harry was unclear as to what was occupying him, and Lupin was also absent . Harry commiserated with Hermione over her failure to elicit a positive response, berating the wizarding world in general, and Potions Masters in particular, for being so difficult, stubborn, distrustful, distasteful, and generally foolish. Given his sympathy – and the grace of Ron's absence – Hermione tentatively told him about her conversation with Lupin.

"Snape, really? _Snape_?" asked Harry after such a long moment of gaping at her, trying vainly to form words that she feared she might have accidentally struck him dumb. "But he's – he's _horrible._ And this is me talking! I know I stood up for him at the trial and everything, Hermione, but that doesn't mean I suddenly think he's going to be nice to you – or anyone."

"Well," Hermione said, telling herself quite firmly that she did _not_ agree, "he seems to have been getting on okay with Remus, hasn't he? And, well, things have changed a bit, and it might be my only choice, really."

"I guess," Harry said doubtfully. "You could always just get an apprenticeship in another subject, though. I mean, Transfiguration ties in with a lot of stuff, doesn't it? Or Charms, and you know how well Flitwick always thought of you…"

"I could do," Hermione agreed. "And I might – if none of the other Masters I've written will accept me and Professor Snape refuses the idea. But this is what I want. I could do the others, but I'd rather hold out hopes for potions…"

"Mental, you are," Harry said fondly, "holding out _hope_ for Snape."

"I may be," she agreed.

"Erm, I'd just wait a bit on telling Ron about this, if I were you," Harry said with a wink, "try to make sure it's absolutely necessary before you tell him."

Hermione nodded her head, smiling, and the evening moved on easily, without another mention of potions or professors or apprenticeships.

* * *

Hermione waited two days past the three-week limit she'd imposed on herself, and then the last of her letters had all returned – all with variations of the same answer: "No."

Sighing in defeat, she made her way to Grimmauld Place. Lupin was out again, and Hermione idly wondered how his job hunt was fairing. He seemed to be out of the house a great deal, which she hoped meant that he was finding success.

It was almost time for supper by the time Lupin returned, holding baby Teddy in his arms. He greeted her, passing off the baby as he did so.

"What brings you?"

As if he had to ask.

"I thought I'd ask you how best to approach Professor Snape," Hermione said, "seeing as none of my letters met with the response I'd hoped for."

Remus had the good grace not to say 'I told you so,' but instead started working on the evening meal as Hermione detailed the various responses she'd received.

"I can't say that I'm surprised," he said as she finished her recounting, "but I am sorry. Maybe it's all for the better."

She looked up a little surprised at that, but before she could ask, he added, "You have many friends here, Hermione, and I'm not entirely sure that Ron and Harry are prepared to be bereft of their best friend for the entire duration of your apprenticeship."

Hermione smiled at the man, agreeing whole-heartedly. "I wasn't really thrilled about the prospect of leaving for so long," she admitted.

The talked of other things as Hermione played with Teddy and Remus finished supper. Once their idle talk died down, though, Hermione brought the conversation back around to the looming subject of Professor Snape.

"How can I ask him, Remus?" Hermione asked. As she'd waited with ever-diminishing hope for a positive response, Hermione had come to terms with the idea of apprenticing under Snape. It had never been particularly distasteful to begin with, and now she felt she might even like the idea a little, although she steadfastly refused to feel optimistic.

"In a few days, he'll actually be coming to Grimmauld Place. Wants to take a spin through the library," Lupin said blandly. "I'm sure you'd be able to meet with him then."

Hermione kept quiet about the suspicious fact that just as her three-week waiting period was up, Lupin had coincidentally arranged for Snape to come to Grimmauld Place. She could forgive him a bit of meddling, she decided. And in this case , it _did_ work out to her advantage.

"You should come by for dinner before then," she said at length. "My parents have been asking after you. Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Lupin agreed.

* * *

**A/N - **Yes, our second main character _will _be putting in an appearance in the next chapter.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read and subscribed so far! I'd really appreciate reviews - let me know what you think, what you hope, and how you're enjoying things so far. Too slow? Too fast? Too little Snape? (I'll agree to that last one...)

Next chapter should be up no later than mid-week.


	4. Chapter 3: Reasons

Chapter 3: Reasons

Anti-Litigation Charm  
I don't own the Grangers, Snape, or any other aspect of JK Rowling's creation. Anything that you recognize is hers, or a variation thereof. I shall try my best to give credit where credit is due in every way possible.

* * *

Lupin brought Teddy with him to dinner the next night, at Hermione's suggestion. Instantly, Mrs. Granger began to dote on the boy, cooing and giggling over him almost to the exclusion of her other dinner companions. Everyone regarded this with kindly amusement, although Hermione sometimes noticed a far-away, pained look in Remus' eyes as he watched her mother play with his little boy. Remus asked after the Granger's dentistry practice, and they made small talk about recent news in the Muggle world as dinner began.

"So," Hermione prompted during a lull in the conversation, "have you found a job, Remus?"

Her parents leaned forward, excitement evident in their eyes. They had taken very kindly to the werewolf, and while they weren't in a position to understand how hard his life was, they realized that this could be a major milestone for the man.

"As a matter of fact, I have," he responded, flashing one of the brightest smiles that had graced his face since Tonks' death. "I haven't signed all the papers yet, but next week, I'll be working for Flourish and Blotts – the old man that's been in charge of orders and purchasing for the last half-century or so has apparently gone a bit daffy of late," he explained.

"That's brilliant!" enthused Hermione, and her parents echoed the sentiment.

"You should talk about setting up a special-order business," said Mr. Granger, "as a sort of liason with Muggle booksellers. Nuts like Arthur Weasley would love getting to read different Muggle books. Our Hermione says that there's a lot that magic – especially Potions, I think – has in common with Muggle science."

Lupin looked thoughtful. "It would never do great business," he said with a slow smile, "but it would certainly be interesting – and convenient, if only for a niche market."

They talked about the various application of Muggle books to wizarding life – Lupin expressed a joking interest in all the books of werewolf lore that would be opened up to him – for the remainder of the evening. As Hermione's parents were cleaning up the kitchen, she shifted to talk of her approaching confrontation with Snape.

"You said he'll be over in the next few days?" Hermione tried to sound casual, but she was sure that Lupin would know how anxious about her last chance for a convenient Potions apprenticeship.

"Monday, he's coming by in the early afternoon – two o'clock or not much later, I'd guess." Teddy was entertaining himself by changing the tone of his skin every time Lupin bounced him on one knee. Both adults were watching the little boy.

"Has he started speaking yet?" Hermione asked, smiling as Teddy's skin tone turned from a deep mahogany to a startling white.

Lupin looked up in confusion. "Who – Severus?"

"Oh, no – Teddy," clarified Hermione with a chuckle.

"Oh, he mumbles a bit to himself, Arabella says it's closer to Gobbledygook than the King's," he responded, looking fondly at his skin-changing son. He stopped bouncing his knee, and Teddy laid back almost immediately, his eyes already drooping with drowsiness. "He's managed a few words, but he's mostly the silent type. From what I'm told, that may be a Lupin family trait."

Remus excused himself, picking the baby up carefully and making his way into the kitchen to thank the Grangers for their hospitality, and Hermione escorted him to the backyard so he could Apparate.

"Until Monday, Hermione," he said before disappearing.

* * *

Monday morning found Hermione much calmer than she had been before her meeting with Arth Eagleton. This fact amused her greatly: almost any of her fellow Hogwarts students would surely tell her that, of the two encounters, _this_ was the one with the highest possibility of getting her hexed. But she knew Professor Snape, even if she didn't know how he'd react. After six years of classes with him, facing him was no longer daunting. She was, surely, nervous about the thought of having to re-approach the whole situation if he turned down her request, but she found that she felt much better if she didn't admit that as a possibility to begin with.

Just after two, she stepped through the Floo to Grimmauld Place, where she found Lupin waiting for her in the parlour. He greeted her with a cup of tea.

"Severus has already made his way into the library," he said.

Despite her earlier resolve, nerves were starting to creep over Hermione. She fidgeted anxiously with the handle of her teacup.

"Right," she said eventually, standing up and placing her cup on its saucer, untouched "thank you for the tea, Remus – I'll be back."

Lupin raised his cup in a silent toast as she made her way from the room.

Severus Snape did not look up as Hermione entered the room. He seemed to be engrossed in a large text, with almost a dozen other tomes scattered around the table.

Hermione stood and watched him, trying to weigh the value of disturbing him while he was reading against the possibility that she might well be standing there all afternoon if she waited for him to acknowledge her.

As she stood and waited, Hermione observed her former Professor.

Hermione hadn't seen him – aside from a single photo from the day he removed himself from St. Mungo's care – since he had woken up from his coma-like sleep. She had gone frequently, along with Remus, occasionally Harry, and (surprisingly) Neville to visit Snape while he'd been unconscious, but Lupin was one of a very few people willing to visit the man once he'd awoken.

For Hermione's part, it wasn't that she was scared of him – that had ended after her third year, after Snape had risked – and sustained – great personal and physical injury to come rescue herself, Harry, and Ron from the danger he considered them to be in from Sirius Black and Lupin on the night of a full moon. From that point on, even if she didn't like him very much (and, in fact, she liked him very little indeed for the majority of their fourth year), she had trusted him. No matter how much he might complain about Harry Potter, no matter how many points he might deduct and how unfair he might seem, Hermione understood that he was willing to go to great lengths to protect his students.

So it wasn't fear – for a while, it had been respect. She couldn't imagine that her former Professor, as proud as he was, would appreciate a bunch of former students coming in to gawk at him while he lay helpless. It had been easy to stay away during the tail end of the school year, as her N.E.W.T.s were keeping her tremendously busy, and by the time life had calmed down enough for her to even consider whether or not she wanted to go out of her way to see the man again, he'd been back in his own home – which had sufficiently deterred Hermione (and, as far as she knew, everyone else save for Lupin) from having any thought of visiting him.

In contrast to how he had looked as he lay, still bandaged about the neck, in the hospital, the Potions Master was looking very well indeed, she noted. It was harder to make a comparison to how he'd looked before the Final Battle, however. Although he seemed even thinner (she didn't know how that was possible), with harsher lines on his face and dark rings under his eyes, he still had a more wholesome air about him – his skin, though pale, had lost its sallow tinge; his hair, though still long and lank, had for the moment given up its greasy sheen. Hermione idly wondered if that had to do with being out of the dungeon and the daily effects of the vapours from a classroom full of potions – many of which were not properly brewed. She noticed that he wore a higher collar than he had in her school days, but she could still see the marks of Nagini's attack over the top of his collar, livid red against his usual pallor.

When, at length, it became obvious that the man was _not_ going to oblige her by looking up from his book, Hermione steeled herself to catch his attention.

"You look well," she said, unable to think of a better way to open the conversation.

Snape did not bother to pause in his reading. "As well as can be expected."

Hermione pressed on, determined to be heard. "How have you been keeping yourself?"

"Busy."

She seated herself, staring at the man before her. "Have you ever taken an apprentice?" she asked eventually.

This time, Snape _did_ stop reading, though he still did not raise his eyes. "No," he responded curtly, and his eyes resumed their perusal of the page before him.

"Would you consider taking one?"

"That would depend on a great many factors."

Hermione paused, unsure of how best to continue.

"Miss Granger," Snape drawled, still refusing to look up from his text, although one eyebrow was arched eloquently, "You have all the subtlety of your House – that is to say, none. Say what you mean to say and be done."

Startled, Hermione responded automatically. "I was hoping to become your apprentice, sir."

At this, Snape did look up, though his expression was inscrutable. "My apprentice," he affirmed, with the air of one talking to a person of dubious intelligence.

"Well, yes sir."

"What an unusual request. Why?"

"I'd like a Mastery in Potions," Hermione began to explain.

"Surely you have _done your homework_, Miss Granger. There are other Potions Masters, even in Britain."

"You're…well, you're the only Potions Master that I know," Hermione continued hesitantly. She wasn't sure that she fancied telling Professor Snape that he was quite literally her last option – although, a tiny part of her spoke up, he might take it as a kindness that she tried to _not_ burden him with herself.

"A glowing recommendation, I'm sure," Snape responded curtly, his eyes returning to his book. "However, as it's hardly necessary to know your Master beforehand, I hardly see the relevance."

"You're the only Potions Master I trust, then," Hermione tried, her voice weak.

"The rigorous standards for Mastery do not change from Master to Master," said Snape, and Hermione hoped that he was being deliberately obtuse.

"That's not the trust I was thinking of."

"You trust me," Snape repeated blankly. It was a statement, a confirmation – not a question. His voice was as level as ever, but the slightest of raises in his eyebrows suggested faint surprise. "You are aware, no doubt, of some of the less savory choices I have made?"

"Choices you made when you were sixteen or seventeen," Hermione said, nodding. "When I was sixteen, I was convinced I wanted to be a housewife, a curse-breaker, and an Arithmancer, all in turns. Harry was sure he wanted nothing more than to be an Auror, and Malfoy was certain that he had no choice but to be a Death Eater – in fact, most of Slytherin thought the same thing. I'm sure that the situation wasn't all that different twenty and thirty years ago, was it?"

Snape shook his head almost imperceptibly, his jaw muscles working as if he was trying to say something. He looked up once again. Hermione, her piece said, was perfectly happy to wait him out. At length, Snape gave up. "A housewife?" he asked, and though his voice was bland, there was a glint of humor in his eyes.

Hermione laughed, startled at his query. She had been expecting something much less innocuous. "I'm not quite sure what I was thinking," she admitted. "I think it was just an expression of my need for stability."

"Your teenage years were not kind," Snape responded, and Hermione was shocked by the gentleness of his tone.

"That just leaves me free to enjoy my future," she said with a shrug, as if to suggest that facing down Voldemort was simply the normal purgatory of pubescence.

Snape said nothing for quite some time, but began gathering the books on the table into a stack and searching the shelves to add a few more tomes. His face bore an expression of utmost concentration as he opened a small satchel and began loading it with books that would never have fit inside without the benefit of magic. This task complete, he shrunk the satchel, deposited it in his pocked, and turned to exit. Hermione watched him with a growing anxiety, sure that her last real hope was going to be crushed without even the benefit of being expressly turned down.

As he strode towards the corridor leading away from the library, Snape paused, not bothering to turn to face her.

"Have Lupin bring you the next time he visits," he said blandly. "Make sure you have an excellent reason."

With that, he left.

* * *

After Snape's abrupt departure, Hermione rehashed the encounter with Lupin.

"I'm not sure that I can say that went well," she said after her recounting. "I mean, he didn't say _no_, but he hardly seemed happy with the prospect."

"You were expecting him to be keen on the idea, were you?" Remus asked with a twitch of his lips that betrayed his amusement at the idea.

"Well, maybe not," Hermione admitted, returning his half-smile.

"I, for one, think that this was a pretty favorable start," said Lupin. "If he didn't dismiss you out of hand, the battle's halfway won. Now, I'm going to see him Thursday, we'll leave from here just after lunch. I'd suggest that _you_, missy, go and work on a list of reasons why he ought to take you as an apprentice." With a wink, he sent her on her way.

* * *

Hermione wasn't sure exactly what she had been expecting of the visits that Lupin paid to Snape, but no vague ideas that she might have held came close to the encounter that Thursday. The two men sat in a small, book-lined parlour and played chess. Remus kept up a string of decidedly one-sided small talk. Snape hardly appeared to listen, making the barest effort in his responses. He also hardly looked at the chess-board, flicking a glance at it just long enough to order a piece to move, never seeming to deliberate, unlike Lupin who seemed to take his time pondering every possible scenario before moving each chessman.

Hermione noted that, while Lupin's white chessmen were very vocal, often giving him advice and pleading not to be sent to their demise, Snape's chessmen were almost silent, only occasionally offering their opinion of things – and they were, of course, always ignored.

Neither Remus nor Snape made any effort to draw Hermione into the conversation, which was fine by her – she walked about the room, minutely inspecting each on the shelves that seemed to make up the very walls of the place, being quite careful to touch nothing. She wondered if she would find bookshelves behind the furniture itself, were she to move it out of the way.

Snape's library was fascinating. Hermione found herself hoping that even if he refused to allow her to apprentice with him, he might be persuaded to grant her access to his bookshelves. One of the walls was devoted almost wholly to Arithmancy, Astrology, and runic alphabets; it also contained some books on magical and mundane history, which filled up the entire wall joining it, and the third wall she could see held books, journals, and parchments all apparently on magical theory. She couldn't make too close inspection of the wall against which her two former professors sat, but from what she could tell, it was comprised of texts about different branches of wand-based magic, as well as some more magical theory.

This lead Hermione to believe, with a sudden sense of awe and envy, that this was not all of Severus Snape's library. This room, filled as it was from floor to ceiling with shelves, littered as it was with stacks of books in corners and on tables, couldn't house all of the literature the man had collected over his life thus far.

Hermione suddenly had a new-found appreciation for Snape.

Though the books made it glorious, the parlour was far from welcoming. The shelves left no room for pictures or paintings on the wall and there were no personal effects to be seen in the room. The furnishings were threadbare at best, and the unlit fireplace was nearly black with age and a build-up of soot. There was a large window in the same wall as the front door, bordered by dark, thick curtains and leant the appearance of great age by the warped, cloudy nature of the glass. Light passing through it was tinted amber, which made the room feel older than it already looked.

As she was finishing her inspection of the titles along the shelves, Remus was check-mated for the third time that morning, and seemed to feel that this was his cue to leave. He gathered up his chessmen and, standing, thanked Snape for his hospitality. Hermione only suppressed her amusement at the notion of Snape being hospitable only through great dint of effort.

"Enjoy your day, Severus. Hermione, I'm sure I'll see you soon; Harry has asked me to invite you to dinner on Friday, as usual." With a smile and a wave, Lupin strode to the front door leaving Hermione, feeling quite wrong-footed, alone with Snape.

Idly, Snape began carefully returning his chessmen to their appropriate positions, pulling a set of white pieces out of a bag and ordering them to their spots as well.

"I was wondering if you'd given my request any thought," Hermione said once the silence had become unbearable.

"I believe I told you," Snape said silkily, although his voice still seemed weaker than it had ever been at Hogwarts, "to have an excellent reason why I should consider your _request_."

"Surely you, of all people, would know that knowledge is its own reason and reward, Professor," Hermione said.

"I am no longer your Professor, Miss Granger," said Snape, casually side-stepping her statement.

Hermione considered the implications of what Snape had said. She couldn't think for a moment that he was suggesting that she call him 'Severus,' but what did that leave her? She would never be so informal as to call him 'Snape,' and 'Mr. Snape' sounded…well, it sounded quite ludicrous, to her ears. What did he expect, for her to simply call him 'sir' for the rest of their acquaintance?

Before she could voice her confusion, Snape added, "As I say, I am no longer your professor, although I _am_ still a Potions _Master_…" in a drawl, smirking in evident amusement at the expression of shock that lit Hermione's face as the meaning of his words dawned on her. She felt her cheeks colouring at the thought of _Master Snape_. That sounded even more ridiculous than the notion of addressing him as Mr. Snape.

"However," he added, almost regretfully, "I suppose that 'Professor' will have to do."

Hermione almost let out a sigh of relief – but caught herself at the last moment. It never occurred to her that he might have been joking – although she would have considered nothing else, had it come from Harry, Ron or – well, anybody.

"To pursue knowledge for knowledge's sake is the height of folly," he said by way of rebuttal to her earlier statement. Hermione cocked her head at him questioningly.

"Seek knowledge because it is useful to you, because it is necessary to you, because it will enrich you or aid you. Knowledge for knowledge's sake is stagnant and pointless. One should not know a fact simply to know it – rather, because knowing it gives one a sort of power."

Hermione said nothing, because the only thing to say would have been to agree with him. She made a mental note to be more careful in her word choice around this man – he was too quick to jump on poorly-thought-out phrases and use them as excuses to trap her into something she did not mean. For the time being, she simply nodded.

Snape took in her nod with a disinterested glance.

"Whenever you return, Miss Granger," he said with a dismissing flick of his fingers, "make sure you have an excellent reason."

With that, the man stood and walked from the room, leaving a dumbfounded Hermione staring after him. For a moment, she considered following after him and pressing her request, but she knew that it would be fruitless, so she resigned herself to play by whatever bizarre rules Snape seemed to be following.

* * *

Hermione beat Harry and Ron to Grimmauld Place on Friday afternoon, helping Remus prepare dinner as she shared the extraordinarily brief exchange she'd had with the Potions Master, and her frustrations over it.

"I didn't expect him to make it easy, but…I need _some_ sort of sign as to what he's thinking," she explained at last. "I'm not used to having my words picked apart and turned about. He's just using it to keep me off-balance."

"Of course he is," agreed Lupin. "I hope you won't take offense, Hermione, but you're not exactly used to people who challenge you – even your classes at Hogwarts couldn't be entirely up to the level that you need, because not all of your classmates have the same capacity for understanding, the same thirst for knowledge. In a way, I think that merely proves the point that an apprenticeship with him would do very well for you."

As Lupin spoke, Harry and Ron had appeared in the kitchen doorway, apparently having just got in from the Ministry.

"Apprenticeship with who?" Ron asked, grinning good-naturedly in greeting. "You finally found a bloke smart enough to see a good opportunity when he sees it?"

At that moment, Lupin quite suddenly dropped a pot he was washing, causing a distracting clatter and spraying hot, foamy water everywhere.

Hermione had her wand in hand, waving it to Vanish the mess. "You two should get out of those robes," she said, grateful for an opportunity to ignore Ron's question, "supper looks like it's almost ready."

Harry, wary of the dangerous waters the conversation had almost entered, charged off to comply, and Ron followed.

"Thanks," Hermione told Remus quietly. "I don't know how to talk to him about Professor Snape."

"However you manage it," he responded with a knowing look, "You'd best do it soon."

By the time the boys were back downstairs, now in casual Muggle wear, Lupin had dinner plates heaped with food on the table.

"Remus," Harry said, gulping his pumpkin juice after a particularly overlarge bite of roast chicken, "I don't know what I'll do if you ever leave. This is the best meal you've made yet!"

It was something of a running joke, because almost every supper that Lupin served was declared by Harry to be 'the best meal' he'd ever had. To his credit, Harry insisted that he'd meant it every time.

"You put house elves to shame, mate," added Ron fervently.

Lupin waved his hand to both acknowledge and dismiss their praise, and Ron used the momentary silence as an opportunity to launch into yet another round of tales about Auror training. Hermione noticed Harry looking distinctly uncomfortable as Ron talked, and decided that she'd have to make a point, soon, of discovering why. Lately, Harry had been dropping hints about not being as chuffed with the prospect of a career in the Aurory as Ron was, but he hadn't yet expressed any real, solid dissatisfaction. She set those puzzlements aside for the time being, focusing her attention on Ron's stories.

Tales of the Aurory and Ministry lasted the companions through dessert, and then Remus was finally able to break the news of his impending job to Harry and Ron, who were both delighted with the news.

"Good thing Hermione isn't after a job like that," Ron joked, "seeing as how she'd never make it out of the shop with her wages."

Hermione blushed at the joke – and admitted that it was likely true.

"That's really great, Remus," Harry said, leaning forward earnestly, joy shining in his bright green eyes. "I'm so glad someone's had the good sense to understand what a marvelous worker you are."

"Yes, but there _are_ two nights a month they don't seem eager for me to be working," Lupin said with lazy good-nature, sitting back and clasping his hands over his stomach. "It's actually why I'm starting in the coming week, as opposed to this week," he added, sounding not the least bit upset about this.

"Good on them," Harry said. "Soon they'll be so pleased to have such a great worker, they won't even think about the fact that you're – well, that you've got a little problem."

Lupin smiled.

"So – Hermione, who did you say you were talking to about apprenticing?" Ron asked, apparently just remembering that the conversation had been derailed earlier.

Hermione, Harry, and Remus all fidgeted slightly in their seats, not meeting each others' eyes.

There seemed to be no way to ease into it, at least not from where Hermione was standing. So, with typical Gryffindor bravery – _foolishness, _a voice that sounded suspiciously like Snape's corrected – she plunged in.

"Professor Snape – Now, Ron," she said, holding up forestalling hand, as Ron's mouth had just gaped open and anger had sparked in his eyes, "I know you're not fond of him, but he _is _a great –"

Ron cut her off. "Not _fond _of him?" he blustered. "_Not fond of him?_ Hermione! You _hate _him, why would you –"

"No, _you_ hate him, Ron." It was Hermione's turn to interrupt. "_You _hate him. _I_ see him as an incredibly brilliant and loyal, if uncomfortably proud and tetchy, teacher – who could teach me a lot and who _also_ happens to be one of my last choices to pursue what I want to – unless you'd rather I move to America?"

This last question seemed to take the wind out of Ron's sails.

"I – well – of course not, Hermione – it's just – he's _Snape_," he trailed off lamely.

Hermione sat back, her arms crossed. Lupin and Harry were exchanging wary looks, unsure of whether or not Ron's explosive temper had already blown over.

"Has he agreed?" Ron demanded suddenly.

"Not – not yet, but he hasn't said no, either."

"Bit of a miracle, really," Harry said lightly, "Good thing you didn't have me around while trying to ask – he'd have probably hexed your ears off."

Lupin gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"I don't like it. He's probably _using _you somehow."

"Honestly, Ron! If there's any _using _ being done, it's me that's doing it – I'm _using _ him for knowledge, _using _him for potion-making experience! It's not like he sought me out for some _plot_," she growled.

"Yeah, but how do you know he didn't force your hand, eh? He could have tracked all your letters to other Masters and made sure you got the response he wanted – could've made you think you _had_ to go to him! I bet he might have even gotten to that Engleberry prick –"

Ron would have trailed on, oblivious to the cold, warning looks being directed at him by Lupin and Harry, but Hermione raised her hand – and her voice – once again.

"It's Eagleton, Ronald , and _listen to yourself_! You sound like you're back in first year, thinking that Professor Snape's broken into Gringotts and stolen the sorcerer's stone, like you think he's some big bogeyman who wants nothing more than to ruin Harry's life again." She smacked her hand down onto the table, making all three of her companions start. "_Honestly_," she breathed, glaring at Ron.

Ron shook his head stubbornly. "I don't like it," he insisted, and then he stood up. "I'm going back to the flat. Harry, Remus – try to talk some sense into her."

In the silence followed, Hermione took several deep breaths, calming herself. Ron had done it again – _"you hate him_," when she'd said nothing of the sort, when she'd defended him year after year against the slander that Harry and Ron threw about.

"Hermione," Harry began carefully

"- Don't you _dare_ try to 'talk sense' to me, Harry James Potter," Hermione warned.

As if her words had released some hidden lever, the tension in the air seeped into nothing, and the three friends were suddenly laughing.

* * *

Two days later, equipped with what she hoped would count as an 'excellent reason,' Hermione returned to the house at Spinner's End. After knocking, she was left to fidget for almost three minutes before the door was opened, with Snape peering at her for a moment before opening the door more fully.

As she stepped in, Hermione said, "I was the top of my class, and I kept Neville from causing Merling-knows-how-many explosions over the years. Harry and Ron, too," she added as an afterthought. "I'm competent – and more than competent. All the invigilators for the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s commented on the quality of my potions-making."

Snape's face was unreadable. "So you say," he responded, but gave no indication of whether this counted, for him, as an excellent reason to take her as an apprentice.

He gestured abruptly for her to sit, and she did so – although he remained standing. Without meeting her eyes, but instead walking to the mantle above his fireplace, Snape asked, "If you were to become an apprentice, what would your expectations be?"

"To learn as much as I can about potion-making, sir," Hermione said frankly, surprised by the question. Hope began to stir in her chest, as she wondered – _could this mean…?_

"Is that all?" Snape asked, his sneer evident in his voice although she could not see his face to confirm it.

"Well, yes sir," she said. "I've no real need of a job in the next three years – the normal term of apprenticeship for a Potions Mastery – so I'd have no limits on the time spent in studies or in the lab."

Snape turned around to find that the girl's eyes had gone wide and dreamy as she finished this statement. Apparently, he noted, the idea of spending the whole day reading and learning was a sort of ecstasy for her.

He could understand that.

Snape turned around again. "Return in two days," he said, and just as Hermione opened her mouth to speak, he added, "be sure to have an excellent reason."

Snapping her jaw shut, Hermione strode to the door and made to open it – but stilled her hand at the last moment. With an air of forced calm, she turned to look at the man's back.

"Thank you for at least considering my request," she said. While she wasn't actually feeling grateful at that moment, she did understand that he could very easily have dismissed her request, and the fact that he was telling her to come back bode well.

When he made no response, she continued on her way out the door.

* * *

"I would be useful. Any potions I made could be sold by you for profit, you'd have three years' worth of perfectly prepared ingredients and flawless assistance," Hermione announced as soon as Snape had opened the door the next time they met. The words were proud, but she knew – hoped – that they were justified.

As usual, Snape's face gave no reflection of whatever he may have thought of her idea of an excellent reason.

Instead, he once again gestured for her to seat herself, then flicked his fingers in what might have passed for an invitation for her to help herself to the tea service on the small table beside her seat.

When he sat, it was on the opposite side of the room – though as small as his parlour was, it was no great distance.

"You have never given the impression that you were particularly fond of this subject – just the homework," he said without preamble.

"-You thought I liked the _homework_?" asked an incredulous Hermione.

"What else was one to think," sneered Snape, "When you insisted upon adding nearly half again the requisite length to every assignment – unless it was a form of unflattering narcissism?"

Hermione had no retort, her pride stung by his assessments of her efforts. True, in her early years at Hogwarts she had gone out of her way to add extra onto each assignment – to prove that she was capable, to prove that she belonged in the magical world.

She had hoped, foolishly as it later turned out, that the magical world would be a place where an over-eager bookworm like herself might find more kindred spirits. The world of witchcraft and wizardry had saved her from the teasing she'd endured because of unexplainable coincidences that seemed to occur around her, and she had hoped that it might also save her from the social stigma of being too in-love with knowledge. Many times, especially in her first year at Hogwarts, Hermione had found herself wishing that the Sorting Hat had gone with Ravenclaw, which it had so strongly been considering.

However, with the passage of time and her steadily increasing self-assurance and maturity, she'd begun to add to her papers for the joy of knowledge, using her homework assignments as fuel to urge her on to new subjects and ideas. She had never felt like she _needed_ to write more than the required length, and had (a rare time or two) turned in only what had been asked of her. This statement on Snape's part was, therefore, more than a little unfair – not that she'd ever tell _him_ that.

"Whether or not I liked homework is beside the point," she said at last. "Did I ever give the impression of disliking Potions?"

"No," Snape responded simply, although she imagined that she could almost hear him thinking _'just the teacher, apparently.'_

"However," he continued, "one rarely pursues a Mastery in a subject for which one feels merely no particular 'dislike.'"

Hermione fumed silently, galled by the way she allowed herself to be caught out in her words so easily.

"I enjoy potion-making immensely," she said primly. "Especially as it has so many ties to other branches of magic."

Professor Snape's face was impassive as she finished her tea. He stood, picking up the tea service and turning to leave the room. Pausing, he said, "Return at this same time next week."

Hermione's heart sank as he continued, "Make sure you have an excellent reason."

* * *

"I'll do your cooking, your cleaning – anything in payment. If you wanted to set up a small apothecary business, I'd run your orders and take care of the more mundane potions for you."

It was a little desperate, but Hermione had been hard-pressed to come up with any other ideas.

Snape didn't even bother to let her in the house, just told her to come back when she had an excellent reason.

* * *

"Miss Granger," Snape said before she could do more than open her mouth as she stood on his doorstep a few days later, "I do not wish to hear yet another reason why you would make a good apprentice – having been your teacher for six _long_ years, I am aware of what you consider to be your sterling qualities. What I wish to hear is _why_ youwish to apprentice – with me – in Potions."

Hermione gaped at her former professor.

"Why would I need to prove that I want this?" she asked, clearly befuddled. "I wouldn't be _asking _ - wouldn't be coming back day after day and week after week – if it wasn't what I wanted."

Snape made no immediate response, simply held out a roll of parchment.

"Complete this," he ordered, "and return tomorrow. Make sure you have an excellent reason."

And with that, the door was closed, and Hermione left staring in incredulity at the door, irritation and confusion warring for dominance. Being left on the stoop two meetings in a row did not bode well, she thought darkly.

With a turn of her heel, she Apparated – to Grimmauld Place, rather than her parents' house. It always seemed bizarre to study magic in her parents' familiar, mundane house, she felt.

The parchment had a smaller sheaf attached to it, bearing brief instructions in Snape's distinctively angular writing.

_Miss Granger_, the note read, _Answer these questions _without _resorting to your precious library – I wish to understand how much you _know_, not well you can cross-reference the genius of others_.

Shaking her head in exasperation, Hermione answered the questions – about the properties of various liquid bases and common solutions – quickly. She returned to her parents' before Lupin could get back from his work – she wasn't sure how to answer any questions he might have about how her attempts at securing an apprenticeship were progressing. She did, however, leave a note informing Remus that all was well, she hoped his new job was proving worthwhile and satisfying, and that she'd likely be stopping by sometime in the evening next week.

* * *

The door swung open as soon as Hermione knocked the next morning. Although she couldn't see Professor Snape, she heard his voice quite clearly.

"Come to the lab – down the hall and to the left."

She followed these clipped instructions, finding a set of stairs that lead down into what looked like a miniaturized version of the potions lab at Hogwarts – stone walls and floors lit with the same torches with two large worktables.

Unlike the lab at Hogwarts, however, Snape's personal lab was in pristine condition, every surface gleaming cleanly, and had none of the clutter that ruled the Hogwarts classrooms. Along one wall there was a long row of sinks and faucets; along another was a single counter with two high stools next to it; the third wall held one clock and, in a double-row beneath it, ten timers. The fourth wall held three doors – the one through which Hermione had entered, one leading to the store room, and a third that opened into what appeared to be a study of some sort – Hermione could see a large table and an overflowing set of shelves.

The Potions Master was stirring a cauldron, so intent on his task that Hermione was unsure at first if he was even aware of her. She stepped closer to his workbench.

"Prepare those," he said without looking up.

Hermione looked about the surface. _Those_ appeared to be small piles of aconite and juniper bark. Leaning closer, she peered into the cauldron Snape was standing over, catching a glimpse of the frothing liquid inside.

"_Now_, Miss Granger."

Hermione picked up the pewter knife that was lying next to the stack of aconite and began slicing it quickly and neatly. Soon, that task done, she slide the pile nearer to Snape's cauldron and began grinding the juniper bark with a mortar and pestle. As she ground the bark, Snape was adding the aconite.

"Timer one, thirty-one seconds," Snape said suddenly, and Hermione was quite confused until she saw the first timer on the wall set itself for that amount of time.

As he stirred in the last of the aconite, Snape added, "Now," and the timer began to wind down. Still stirring, he crooked one finger to beckon Hermione closer.

He gave no order, but Hermione nodded as if he had, scooping all of the bark into a ready pile, holding her mortar ready to push the small load into the cauldron.

The timer gave a soft chime – Hermione realized it would probably serve the delicate process of potions making poorly to have some nerve-wracking buzzer go off – and Hermione had all of the bark added by the time the tone had ended.

Pursing his lips, Snape made a noise in the back of his throat, half-way between a hum and a grunt. Hermione thought she was justified in considering it to be a sound of approval. After all, she told herself smugly, she had just identified a potion she'd never actually seen prepared before – Wolfsbane – and had therefore known how to prepare the ingredients without being told, as well as recognizing which step Professor Snape had been on and how to continue the process.

She watched as Snape stirred feverishly for a few more minutes while the flames below the cauldron tapered off and were extinguished entirely.

He stopped very suddenly, and began to bottle the potion while his used instruments flew over to the sink, which filled itself obligingly with hot, foamy water

Under sudden initiative – and not rightly knowing what else to do with herself – Hermione began washing the tools. Snape appeared beside her a moment later, one hand holding an old cloth, the other extended , waiting for her to hand him the something.

As they cleaned up the lab, Snape quizzed her on various aspects of the Wolfsbane potion and its preparation.

When the lab was properly restored, he handed her the bottled potion and a roll of parchment.

"Take the potion to Lupin, tell him that it's for one of his mongrel charity cases and that he'll receive his own soon enough," he instructed curtly. "Return to me with that parchment completed and an exact understanding of how to prepare a Dreamless Sleep potion."

He made as if to leave, and then turned slowly back to face her.

"Your reason, Miss Granger?" he asked coolly.

"Even if you never said a word to me," Hermione said promptly, "your library could teach me more than a half-dozen other Potions Masters'. And even if you didn't let me read a single book," she added, "working with you would teach me more than hundreds of hours in the lab on my own."

Snape turned once again to the door. "When you come back, Miss Granger," he said as he ascended the staircase, "make sure you have an excellent reason."

* * *

August gave way to September, and Hermione, after sparing a pang of nostalgia at the sad reality of not attending Hogwarts, began to enjoy the pace of her life. She was beginning to meet a few times a week with Snape who, while always curt and often dismissive and repressive, had not yet said 'no.' He would either brew with her or simply test her knowledge – on anything and everything that could be remotely related to potions – and he would almost always send her home with a small roll of parchment, more often than not with the sneering reminder to _not _consult her dear Oracles for the answers – that regurgitated knowledge did neither of them any good. His parting words were always a warning to return only with an "excellent reason." As time went by, Hermione occasionally did not come prepared with a reason, especially when she noticed that he stopped asking for a reason and instead let her volunteer it on her own.

Hermione found herself enjoying the sessions, no matter how terse, insulting, or dismissive of her efforts Snape might be. He answered her questions at a length and level that he'd never indulged in as her Professor, which she suspected had a great deal to do with the fact that he did not have to worry about keeping an entire classroom occupied.

As a force of habit, Hermione would occasionally mention personal anecdotes in conversation, or talk about her family, friends, or past. Professor Snape seemed almost entirely unaware that she was speaking in these circumstances, rarely responding and _never_ sharing anything remotely personal in return. Rather than dissuade her, Hermione found that this stirred sort of sympathy for the man – a man so tightly closeted that she imagined it'd be difficult for him to show even the tiniest part of himself.

She traveled to Ron's flat once or twice a week for dinner with her two best friends. Ron continued to insist that Snape was up to no good, but he was much quieter and more placid in his grumblings now, and some nights forgot to be indignant about it altogether. After splitting the week between her parents and her friends, Hermione usually spent almost the entire weekend at Grimmauld Place, where the four companions were becoming more and more frequently joined by other Order members and friends. There were times when the sadness of the losses everyone had suffered still pierced her to the quick – she still couldn't look at George without feeling like she'd been slapped in the face - , but all signs pointed to everyone starting to look towards the future, rather than simply trying to survive the immediate present.

* * *

Hermione entered the lab one day to find Snape slaving over a pile of stag beetles, preparing them for use in a potion. Without looking at her, he pointed at a pile of lacewing flies, which she took as an indication that she should be preparing them.

"Strip and save the wings," he ordered, "and make a paste of the rest."

Obediently, Hermione set to work. From what she'd heard, this was very much like a typical detention for Snape's least-favorite miscreats – only this time, Snape was willingly subjecting himself to it as well.

"Professor," she asked, hercuriosity stirred by this thought, "why not do this with magic?"

Without pausing in his efforts, Snape replied, "For the same reason that one does not charm ingredients to add themselves, and the same reason that self-stirring cauldrons always produce inferior potions."

This was, as far as Hermione could tell, was no reason at all. With a puzzled frown, she let the subject drop, deciding it was time to share her 'excellent reason' for the day – weak as some of them were, she was rather proud that she'd managed to come up with as many as she had.

"You always seem so sure of yourself, so in-control. I want that."

His face frozen in his customary impassive expression, Snape handed her a glass jar in which to store her lacewing flies, holding a hand out for the paste she'd made. When their efforts were tidily packed away, he handed her another roll of parchment. "Return tomorrow," he said, and headed into his study. "With an excellent reason," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Stung a little by his total lack of response to her statement, Hermione didn't bother looking at the parchment when she returned home. She had faithfully fulfilled every assignment he'd given her – and faithfully refrained from consulting her books – and she knew that she would complete this one as well, but she had no intention of jumping to obey him just then.

"He's impossible, Crookshanks," she told her squash-faced cat, who had taken to greeting her every time she returned from the Professor's house, as if knowing that the man tended to irk Hermione.

Dinner came and went before Hermione conceded defeat to the voice of her younger self, nagging her to complete her homework before going to bed. The voice even used a few quotes from one of those little planners she'd provided Harry and Ron with. Smiling at memories that felt like they belonged in another life time, Hermione gave in and spent the evening working on her assignment.

* * *

A/N - Snape's finally come into the scene!  
Thank you so much to everyone who has read and subscribed! **Please review! **I'm really anxious to hear people's thoughts on how the story's progressing, among other things. (What did you think of Snape? I'm trying to keep him from going ooc unless it's absolutely necessary). I'd love to hear your thoughts - thank you so much!

Next update should come over the weekend. Cheers!


	5. Chapter 4: Out of Reasons

Chapter 4: Out of Reasons

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

JK Rowling owns everything you recognize, and has provided the base for everything you _don't _recognize.  
My heartfelt thanks to those of you who have reviewed, subscribed, and favorite-d. It's tremendously helpful to hear what people think of the fic, so reviews are much appreciated!

* * *

The parchment held nothing that would have tempted Hermione to check her books, although she was beginning to wonder at the purpose of the assignments. Although Snape had made her no promises regarding her apprenticeship - in fact, he hardly ever brought up the subject- he seemed to take it as granted that she would abide by his wishes, not only in completing the ruddy things, but in doing so without turning to her textbooks. He had yet to return a single grade or even make a comment to her about her past work - indeed, if he had not held out a demanding hand on every day that an assignment was due, there would have been no proof that he was aware of the parchments' existence at all. From the first simple assignment, the questions had grown in complexity and depth. In many ways, they seemed to mirror her progression through the years of Potions classes at Hogwarts. Hermione knew that there was an exam required for any hopeful apprentice, and let herself hope that this was Snape's way of preparing her for that exam. By this point - after more than a month of multiple meetings a week - Hermione thought it was safe to assume that as long as she continued to offer him no real reason for complaint, Snape would eventually agree to teach her once again. With that thought in mind, she had begun marking down questions that gave her a bit of trouble, to help her in revision for the hopeful apprenticeship entry exam.

* * *

Snape once again held her out on the porch, waiting for her 'excellent reason' before permitting her entry. Hermione had not come prepared with one - having all but run out of viable answers about a week and a half before- and cast about desperately for an idea once it became clear that she would not be permitted entry without some sort of reason. Of a sudden, and for no reason she could think of, Remus' statement that Snape was really the best instructor to challenge her academically and intellectually came to mind. She smiled at the memory of the exchange, and knew she had her answer.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she smiled as she gave her impromptu reason. "I want to be challenged, and I can't think of an apprenticeship that would suit me better in that regard. A lot of teachers I could study under are already satisfied with my academic habits, and probably wouldn't push me much farther than I'd push myself. I don't know that you've _ever _been described as easily satisfied -" here Hermione tried very hard to keep her expression neutral – "and I think that would be good."

In the silence that followed that statement, Hermione realized that it was more true than she'd imagined. When she and Lupin had first talked about this, the likelihood that Snape would pick apart her words and actions had seemed like an annoyance to be overcome. After the benefit of more time with the man, though, it seemed like more of an effective teaching method. A part of her that sounded a great deal like Ron disparaged this sudden realization, but on the whole she was quite pleased with the way the unexpected answer had turned out.

Snape's face was impassive, but he nevertheless opened the door to allow Hermione inside.

Wordlessly, he lead Hermione downstairs, to the laboratory where more and more of her visits to his house had been taking place. On one of the long workbenches was some project of his own, and on the other was a series of ingredients accompanied by a piece of parchment. Hermione walked over to it, and saw a rather impressive list of preparations and steps. It was obviously a recipe, but looking over it, Hermione found that she was not familiar with it.

"Sir?" she asked, looking up to where he stood near his own desk, watching her.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"What potion is this? I don't think I've ever seen it before."

"Your memory fails you, then," he drawled in response, his eyes fixing on her own. "That is, however, immaterial. This potion does not require any specific intent or interaction from the brewer – merely your skills. Proceed."

Hermione stared at him a moment in surprise. Normally, when the man didn't answer a question, he ignored it entirely, rather than deliberately acknowledging the question and still leaving it unanswered. At least, that was the behavior that Hermione had grown used to. As she started to feel wounded by the dismissal, Hermione reminded herself that it was still far better than the cutting remarks that would have answered the same question were she still a student at Hogwarts. Taking a deep breath, she looked down at the instructions list again, searching her mind for any recollection of the steps spelled out for her. She was almost certain that it matched nothing on the course material, and there was no way that Snape was familiar enough with her extra-curricular reading to just _assume _she had stumbled across something. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was something on _his_ curriculum for sixth or seventh years, so he assumed that Slughorn had introduced it to her at some point.

None of that mattered at the moment, though. What mattered was the preparation of this potion – whatever it might be. Determined to do well despite what she felt was her disadvantage, Hermione carefully re-checked the list of steps, and set about preparing for the brewing. She made quite sure to read and re-read through the steps and descriptions of the stages of the potion before beginning anything, so she would make no mistakes. Although she'd helped him prepare ingredients and taken a hand in a few stages of different potions he had brewed, Hermione had yet to create a potion entirely by herself in his laboratory – she felt that this was a significant moment, and wanted to make sure she acquitted herself well.

The potion didn't seem to be any more complex than any potions that she had brewed in her final year at Hogwarts, but it _was _extraordinarily exacting. Without thinking, Hermione found herself making use of the magicked timers on the wall and would have, were she not so caught up in trying to prepare this potion perfectly, been pleasantly surprised by the fact that they responded to her.

As the potion reached one of its simmer stages, Hermione was pleased to note that it looked precisely as it ought to. Taking advantage of the brief respite from stirring and managing the flames, she sapped the juice from a few succulent aloe leaves and wondered as to the nature of the potion she was preparing, and why Snape might have been so closed-mouth about it.

More than an hour later, Hermione was beginning to feel mildly frustrated. The potion looked _almost_ right, but its colour was subtly off - not enough for her to count the attempt as a failure, but enough to sting her pride in her potion-making. To make matters worse, Snape had hardly attended to his own workbench, but rather watched her labours with an indecipherable expression. She re-read all of the instructions, mentally checking off everything she had done correctly. There wasn't a single item on the list that she had missed. According to the parchment before her, this potion _should _be perfect. There was nothing for it – with a suppressed sigh, Hermione began clearing her implements as she waited for the potion to cool. When it had done so, she decanted it into three bottles that Snape must have placed on the table while she was cleaning. She noticed with a mite of annoyance that, despite what she knew to be his habit of pre-labeling vials and bottles, these were unmarked.

"I've finished," she announced, though it was hardly necessary. Snape held his hands out, and Hermione passed over the bottles of the unnamed potion with a feeling of resignation. As he held up one specimen to the light and inspected it, Hermione bit her lip nervously. The colour _was_ off, she was sure of it. The Professor Snape that she had known at Hogwarts would take that as an excuse to dismiss her efforts as inadmissible, a poor attempt at crafting a potion. But on most occasions, he had been much fairer to her here than he'd ever been while at school – Hermione wondered if that would transfer over to his judgment of the potion.

Snape said nothing, but took the bottles into the study room that adjoined the lab, where he placed them on a counter and sat down before an open book and an assortment of loose parchment.

"Now can I know what that potion was, sir?" she asked, following him.

"In good time," he replied absently, shifting through the stack of parchment.

"I'm sure I followed the steps correctly, but I don't think it came out quite correctly –" she began, but was cut off.

"I have no doubt of your ability to follow direction, Miss Granger. There is little need to assure me of that," he said, selecting a sheaf and rolling it before handing it to her.

Hermione's hopes bolstered a bit as she accepted the parchment. If he was still giving her assignments, he couldn't have discounted her request yet. She resolved to do better the next time he gave her a chance to brew – _and _to find out what that potion was.

"I'll come back tomorrow, then?" she asked, a little hesitantly, but Snape had already sat down and immersed himself in the book, which she took as her cue to leave.

* * *

After an hour of frustrated searching through her Potions texts yielded no hint as to what it is she had brewed that day, Hermione grudgingly moved away from that train of thought and pulled out the evening's assignment.

Although she had put the mystery potion more or less out of her head, Hermione did not have her full attention devoted to the parchment roll as she began reading it. For the most part, she was thinking about Professor Snape's confusing behavior – to be apparently encouraging her interest by answering her questions thoroughly (more often than not), and yet to still be demanding _excellent reasons_ (how she hated that phrase, after almost two months!) created irritatingly mixed signals. To allow – even demand, it seemed – Hermione to come back again and again, and yet be as stiffly un-personable, curt, and often insulting as he was seemed unfathomable to Hermione.

Even as distracted as she was, however, it did not take long at all for the meaning of the sentence she was reading to sink in:

_I, Hermione Jean Granger, having averred my interest in furthering the pursuit of knowledge, having completed the requisite course of basic study, and having successfully tested as fully competent in the creation and theory of potions, take it upon myself to pursue an apprenticeship in Potions…_

Hermione re-read this sentence three times in quick succession, the dawning light of realization warring with utter incomprehension, before she was able to read the rest of the affidavit in her hands -the affidavit which would officially name her as an apprentice for Mastery in Potions.

In her excitement, Hermione was ready to sign the contract without reading beyond the first small paragraph, but her practical side reasserted itself just in time to stop such a foolish impulse. It _was _Snape that she was dealing with, after all – she wouldn't really put it past him to have an absurd clause in the agreement somewhere or another. It was with great care, therefore, that she read through the rest of the contract.

From what she'd researched, this was a fairly straight-forward, if slightly antiquated, apprenticeship contract. By signing it, she would be agreeing that she was studying Potions under no coercion; that her first and foremost priority would be the duties and tasks of the apprenticeship; that her first and foremost educational and professional authority within the next three years would be her chosen Master; that she would be completing, within those three years, a number of requirements that would earn her her own Mastery; that if she failed in those requirements, she would retain the status of 'journeyman' unless she wished to re-apprentice for a full three years; and she would, finally, be agreeing to a code of conduct that was centered around respect for and deference to her Master and his ideas of her education.

None of these stipulations were cause for so much as a second thought as far as Hermione was concerned. She turned her attention to the second portion of the contract, which would bind her Master in the way that the first portion would bind herself. In the second portion were clauses spelling out the requirements that would be put upon Snape: that he was taking on an apprentice of his own volition; that he would be ever-mindful of the duties and tasks of a Master towards his apprentice; that his first and foremost professional interest within the next three years would be to oversee and guide his chosen apprentice; that he would, in every way available to him, guide that apprentice towards her Mastery; that he would provide his apprentice with every pertinent tool, book, or necessity that she was needful of but unable to provide for herself; and that he agreed to respect the privilege of passing on the secrets of his craft to his chosen apprentice.

Again, these specifications were acceptable to Hermione – there was nothing that she would not have put in, herself, and she could think of nothing that seemed to be missing. She was sure that Professor Snape could find a loophole if he was determined to be evil to her, but she hoped that he would not have spent almost two months working towards this point if all he had in mind was manipulation or abuse. The Potions Guild, as far as she knew, took breaches of the trust of Mastery quite seriously, and she couldn't imagine a man as upright and painstaking as her former Professor to risk his Master-status over, well, _anything –_ much less playing some sort of trick on her.

It was, therefore, with considerable pleasure and an incredibly light heart that she signed her name neatly on the appropriate line. She noticed that Snape had yet to sign his portion of the contract – without both signatures, the document was not binding – and wondered if he suspected that she might try to sneak some clause or stipulation in.

Hermione's parents were not yet home to share the happy news with, but Remus had told her how to find his little office in the back of Flourish & Blotts, so she Apparated happily to the Leaky Cauldron, and it was with indefatigably bright spirits that she made her way through Diagon Alley and into the famous bookstore.

Apparently, Lupin's days ended early – she was just in time to catch him locking his office door to leave, although it was still fairly early in the afternoon. Although he looked surprised, the older man gave her a wide smile in greeting.

"Hermione! What brings you to our humble little store today?"

"He did it, Remus!" she exclaimed, gushing with delight, "Professor Snape, I mean – he's apparently decided to take me on as an apprentice!" she had had the good sense to not bring the parchment with her, as she'd likely have crumpled it in her enthusiastic hand-wringing, but she now felt somewhat disappointed to not be able to show the proof of her good luck. "He handed me the contract today. He didn't actually tell me what it _was_, of course, I just thought it was another of his assignments, only it was the contract! And so suddenly – only, I'm not sure how he can have the contract ready so soon, unless he's planning to hold off on signing it until I've taken the exam. Oh!" she added, as the thought dawned on her, "I've so much revising to do! I wonder if I should pick up some new potions books while I'm here," she added, peering around the tall shelves and narrow, winding aisles that surrounded her.

Remus simply laughed at this stream of one-ended conversation as he steered her from the shop. "I'm sure that, between the two of you, you and the Professor have every potions book you could conceive a need for, Hermione," he told her in a joking, gentle tone. "Why don't we go to the apothecary instead, make sure your kit is full of at least the basic ingredients – wouldn't do to give Severus a reason to criticize your preparation," he added with a wink. "After that, we'll pick something up and head to Ron's flat – you deserve to celebrate with your friends!"

Hermione started to agree, but then thought of her parents. Sometimes, it felt as though the gulf between the magical and non-magical worlds was so wide that her friends could almost forget that her parents, while Muggles, were still an active force in her life.

She couldn't blame any of her friends – in a way, she was guilty of such an error of thinking, herself. There were many things – impressively many – that her parents could accept and apparently understand about the wizarding world, but without much personal experience with it, their understanding could only go so far. Her father, while supportive, didn't understand how an apprenticeship could replace formal study at a college or university; and her mother wondered out loud about what sort of a living one could make in Potions. It was not their world, and so even though they did an admirable job of trying to embrace it, there were some things that Hermione couldn't quite share with them.

_Is this one of those things?_ she wondered. She struggled briefly with her indecision, torn between love for her parents and the knowledge that the celebration of her apprenticeship was something that belonged in the wizarding world, with her wizarding friends.

"Actually, can we stop by the Owl Post Office before the apothecary? Only, I want to let my parents know – and warn them that I'm bringing home a dessert of some sort to celebrate. You and the two boys are welcome to join, of course," she said, hoping that this was the proper compromise.

Lupin agreed earnestly, and she found herself writing her parents – _I've gotten the apprenticeship! Celebration dinner with Harry, Ron, and Remus – all four of us will be home after dinner for a toast and some flan. _– and sending the little nine-knut owl off to give them the happy news.

As it turned out, Hermione was lucky that Remus had suggested a visit to the apothecary – she was needlessly low on many very basic ingredients. By the time she finished refilling her kit with basic supplies, as well as adding more advanced supplies that she was either sure she would need soon or that kept long enough that it wouldn't be a waste to by them now (as she purchased them, she remembered the clause in Professor Snape's portion of the contract stating that he'd have to supply her with anything she lacked – even though she was certain that he had gracious plenty of every necessary ingredient, she didn't like the thought of the man having to provide her with basics that she could buy for herself, not to mention that she didn't want to _invite _any more criticism than she seemed to attract naturally), Hermione was convinced that she'd single-handedly made Slug & Jiggers' profit goals for that day. It was with a significantly lighter purse, and unaffected high spirits that she left the apothecary to visit Ron and Harry.

Ron couldn't understand the appeal of take-away Chinese, but it was a childhood favorite of Hermione's, as well as being a new-found favorite of both Remus and Harry, and so it was that Hermione and Lupin found themselves showing up to the flat with overflowing bags of Chinese food, setting up to surprise Harry and Ron when they arrived home from the Ministry.

"What's that?" they could hear Ron asking from the entry-way, where the two boys had Apparated, "It smells like…" he gave a great sniff at the air, and they could hear Harry mimicking the action.

"Ahh, brilliant! Chinese take-out, that's what that is!" Harry sounded triumphant as he entered the little dining room and kitchenette area. "Best part of living in Muggle London," he said with great satisfaction, as he greeted both his friends with a hug.

"Say what you like, mate, that stuff can't be safe," Ron said, giving the bags a deeply mistrustful look. This look was quickly wiped away when he noticed that one bag was filled with nothing but fried rice and drumsticks. "I take it all back – you're the best, Hermione," he said with deep emotion, a drumstick already in hand as he went to get a fork for the rice.

"Urgh, Ron," Harry said, with a look of utter dismay, "keep it all inside your mouth, thanks – I'd like to finish my own supper – speaking of which, why the sudden luxury?" he added, turning to face Hermione.

By the time she was done explaining the circumstances through which Snape acquiesced to her apprenticeship, the small group was seated and deeply enjoying their meal. Ron had the good grace – and the aid of a constantly over-full mouth – to keep any negative opinions he had about the arrangement to himself, which Hermione appreciated. She invited them all to her parents' for desert – she'd bought a huge pastry while in Muggle London – and everyone agreed enthusiastically.

It was very late indeed when Hermione's parents eventually succumbed to the desire for sleep, leaving Hermione with another round of congratulations and a warning, from her mother, to be sure she rested well. Remus had seconded this instruction, saying that the only way to start the apprenticeship out on the right foot was to be well-prepared - which she was already - and well-rested for the first day. He gave Hermione a quick hug and then preceded Harry and Ron through the Floo, leaving the boys to make their good-byes.

Ron seemed to have gotten over the good mood which had so graced dinner - he scowled into the fireplace as he stood, his hands in his pockets, before Hermione.

"If it's what you want, I'm glad it's happened," he said slowly. "I still don't like it," he added truthfully, his frown deepening. "He's a manipulative, conniving bastard - you watch him, Hermione."

Although she was glad that he had at least prefaced his concerns with something conciliatory, Hermione refused to dignify Ron's dark mood with a response. She simply turned to Harry, giving him a good-bye hug.

"This'll be really great, Hermione. I'm glad you found a Master - even if it _is _Snape." Harry gave Hermione a wink, then gestured for Ron to go through the Floo connection, clearly unwilling to leave his two best friends alone when Ron was in a pet.

After the boys' departure, Hermione stared into the fire for a long time, lost in her thoughts. Reflecting on the past weeks of her acquaintance with the Potions Master, Hermione was grateful that he'd taken such a long time to make up his mind about her request. The time had allowed Hermione a glimpse of what the apprenticeship would likely resemble: though her professor was neither kind nor patient, he was intelligent and, for the most part, readily willing to share his knowledge.

Every now and then, she'd noticed, he would pause before answering a more abstract question, would frown at her as if she'd somehow disappointed him in asking. Sometimes after giving her such a look, Snape would refuse to answer the question at all, and would simply proceed with the task at hand as if she'd never asked. This confused Hermione especially because he never seemed to bat an eye at other questions. That look, that feeling of being measured and found wanting, hounded Hermione - Lupin, she realized anew, was right in saying that this was a man who could make her feel challenged and out of her depth in a way that very few instructors ever had. The thought was actually exciting.

As she thought about her new role as a Potions apprentice, Hermione half-heartedly drew up a list of additional shopping she needed to complete. Remus could joke all he liked, but she _was_ planning on fleshing out her library on Potions, and she thought over which titles she was most in want of. Additionally, she intended to visit Madam Malkin's for new robes. The standard robes traditionally worn at Hogwarts ill-befitted potion-making: too much flowing fabric in the sleeves was hazardous in a potions lab, as Neville had had the misfortune to prove more than once. Hermione hoped that Snape might eventually permit her to wear street clothes at some point, but for as long as he remained so rigidly formal she might as well dress practically. Additionally, she was determined to never again feel wrong-footed because of her wardrobe. Memories of how out-of-place she felt in Arth Eagleton's manor surfaced, and she resolved that she would have, along with more practical workrobes, something that would help her feel at ease in finer company.

A log snapped in the fire, and Hermione was brought up from her musings abruptly. Yawning, she noticed that it was soon going to be very early morning instead of very late at night, and so made her way to bed. Elusive as sleep was, she eventually succumbed to dreams, a contented smile on her face.

* * *

Had Snape been anyone other than - _himself_ - there would have been no stopping Hermione from throwing herself into a hug the moment he opened his door the next morning. However, Snape being precisely who and how he was, Hermione had the presence of mind to enter quite calmly. It was only when the Professor had escorted her into his study, seated them both, and held out his hand in an unspoken demand of the contract that Hermione indulged in a brilliant smile. She beamed at her soon-to-be Master as she handed over the parchment.

"Wipe that idiotic smile from your face," Snape snapped irritably. "I do hope you had the presence of mind to _read_ the contract before binding yourself by it?" The look on his face implied that he actually found this to be quite too much to hope for.

"Of course, sir," Hermione replied with as much dignity as she could, refusing to rein in her smile. "But I'm not sure I understand -I haven't taken the proficiency exam, so the contract can't be valid yet, can it?"

"Of course it is not valid - the contract requires _two _signatures, Miss Granger. As to the exam - " and here she could _almost _imagine a glint of humor in the depths of his black eyes, "-what do you think all those assignments were?"

Hermione's eyes widened with comprehension.

"They were -? But, I could've cheated without even knowing it!"

Irritation crackled in Snape's response. "Of course you couldn't have, nonsensical witch. Every scrap of that parchment was charmed against accepting ill-gotten answers. _Besides,_" he added, "I believe I gave you _quite_ explicit instructions that I expected the answers to be your own. Surely the brain of Gryffindor would know better than to eschew my orders."

Hermione's fears refused to be assuaged. "But I didn't study and I just _know_ -"

"Miss Granger," Snape said in a voice of long-suffering, "_might_ I remind you that the contract you claim to have read is proof positive that you, in fact, performed adequately on the exam. Life will not be so considerate as to give you time to prepare for a moment of crisis. You must be sure in your command of the knowledge that you possess." The glare that he was sending in her direction seemed to dare Hermione to press the point.

She sighed in defeat. "Yes, sir," she said dutifully. "But, then, why hadn't you already signed the contract?"

"I intended to make sure that you fully understood the commitment before we are both bound together by contract for three years. Uneager as I am to spend that length of time with any Gryffindor, I shudder to think of being obligated to a Gryffindor who finds herself disliking a situation she has entered in too lightly."

Hermione found herself torn between feeling offended that Snape so obviously overestimated her empty-headedness, and being touched that he was looking after her interests already. _Well, _she mused, _it's really his own interests he's looking after. He just doesn't want to get landed with an apprentice who suddenly wants out of the contract._ That certainly made more sense for the Snape she knew.

"I'd have hoped," she said, a little stiffly, "that the last few months would have proved my dedication to the idea."

"In that last few months you have had a significantly easier time than you will as my apprentice," Snape retorted.

"I certainly hope so," responded Hermione testily. "I'm not exactly one to shy away from dedication to my studies."

"I will demand dedication to more than just your studies," Snape said, and that frowning look that had so hounded Hermione was back in his eyes. "You will need to work towards the betterment of your mind and your skills, more even than your knowledge."

Hermione found herself quite at a loss for how to respond to this statement. Bettering her skills was one thing, but her mind? With barely a shake of her heart, she let the thought go for the time being.

"Of course," she agreed.

"You will follow the instructions I give you, no matter how bizarre or nonsensical they may seem?

Hermione nodded. "Within reason," she added as a sudden afterthought.

Snape shot her a questioning look.

"If you try to instruct me to marry some long-lost nephew of yours," she said with a hint of a smile, "I don't think I'll feel obligated to obey. Anything that relates to my studies and apprenticeship, though, I'll do as instructed."

Snape gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. She thought – hoped – that she saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes at the way she had closed that loophole.

"You will complete all assignments without complaint, no matter how demanding or numerous they are?"

Another nod.

Snape's face was as unreadable as ever as he held her gaze for a long moment. He pursed his lips in an expression of supreme dissatisfaction, then slowly unfurled the parchment, pulling a quill and ink across the table. His face still a mask of long-suffering and annoyance, he signed his name, and then sat back as the parchment rolled itself up and disappeared with a faint _crack_.

"That went to -?"

"The Ministry," Snape replied with indifference. Abruptly, he pushed his chair back from the study table, standing up.

"I expect you to use the day to procure anything you feel you are lacking in for the immediate future," he said tonelessly, " - with a very careful eye to your ingredients. You will furnish yourself with new notebooks - at least three, although more will certainly be put into use. Return early tomorrow morning; there is tremendous work to be done."

This last statement was said in such a disparaging tone that Hermione bristled instinctively. If he thought her to be such a helpless case, why even bother to agree to allow her an apprenticeship? Of course, this thought served to remind Hermione that he _had _taken her on as an apprentice, that her months of work and searching had paid off - which brought an ebullient smile back to her face.

Snape turned away from her in his typical dismissal, heading towards, Hermione assumed, his laboratory.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," she called after him.

The man's retreating form paused for half a beat, and then he continued on as if he had heard nothing. Hermione sighed and left.

* * *

As she was in Diagon Alley anyway, it was a simple thing for Hermione to stop by Lupin's office at Flourish & Blotts, where she happily confirmed that she was officially an apprentice and thanked Remus for suggesting that she stock up on her ingredients. It felt good to be a step ahead of Snape.

He took an early lunch to join in her errand-running, and surprised Hermione by presenting her with a new kit for holding various ingredients and tools.

"It's not every day that a good friend and former student earns such an excellent apprenticeship, Hermione," he said in response to her stammered protestations and thanks.

"I wouldn't have got it at all if it hadn't been for you," responded Hermione when she could speak properly, "I would have never thought to ask Professor Snape."

"Can't blame you for that," said Lupin with a chuckle as they moved out of the supply shop, Hermione clutching a bag full of new notebooks, quills, and ink.

They made their way over to get Hermione some new robes, where they were met by an extremely flustered Madam Malkin, much to Hermione's chagrin. It had been one thing to receive letters from people following the _Daily Prophet _during the stretch of time that it had covered the so-called 'love triangle' between herself, Harry, and Victor Krum - it was another thing entirely to have to deal face-to-face with people who were star-struck upon meeting her, whether it was because of her place in the Golden Trio or her war-heroine status. The excitable shop-keeper drove Hermione fairly mad by doting attendance upon her as the girl looked through a selection of robes.

Hermione ended up buying three pairs of robes - all black - that she thought would serve well in the potions lab. They were fitted, with tight sleeves and a collar that closed at the base of her neck. The robes fell almost to knee-length largely because Hermione was growing sick of worrying that she would inadvertently knock something over with the material that swept behind her as she walked around Snape's narrow lab and study, and there were golden buttons (a fitting tribute, she thought, to her Gryffindor pride) in a double-row all down the front. Turning before a mirror, Hermione was quite pleased with the effect - it was certainly more mature than the full, loose robes she was used to wearing, and she looked forward to the convenience the new robes would afford. To go with the robes, she bought several pairs of working pants – also black – to protect her legs from spills or splashes.

That taken care of, Hermione bought herself two pair of dress robes as well. She couldn't imagine much occasion to wear them, but she wanted to be prepared – in addition to her own resolution, she could easily imagine Snape's sneering look and derisive jibes if a situation arose and she found herself empty-handed.

The first set was inspired once again by her House loyalties and very formal - a single, high-collared robe in a deep, jewel red, accented with gold rope. This set had long, tight sleeves a full, heavy skirt that made Hermione feel quite elegant as she once again spun in front of Madam Malkin's mirrors, noting with satisfaction the way the fabric fanned out around her ankles.

The Madam herself suggested Hermione's second pair of dress robes, and Hermione balked at first, relenting only when two kindly old witches who happened to overhear her conversation put their two cents in, demanding that Hermione at least try on the ensemble. So it was with rather more of an audience than she would have liked, including Lupin (who looked quite amused at the spectacle she had unwittingly made of herself), that Hermione tried on the robes that Madam Malkin had suggested. The under robe was a diaphanous, silky material in a very loose cut, with a neck scooped so wide that the dress didn't cover her shoulders at all, leaving her shoulders and neck bare and flowing in wide sleeves and a wide skirt, all in a very deep blue. The over robe looked, to Hermione's skeptical eyes, more like an over-grown corset than anything else - it was sleeveless; a tight-fitting, silver brocade that that tied from her bosom to just below her hips, where it stopped in abrupt line on the front with a more graceful dove-tail in the back. Hermione felt certain that any woman would have felt beautiful in such an outfit - but that did nothing to make her any less self conscious than she admittedly was, being gawked at by Madam Malkin and the two interfering old ladies. She noticed (with deeply heartfelt gratitude) that Lupin was not being so rude as to stare.

"So the three work robes and these two dress sets - will that be it, my dear?" asked Madam Malkin kindly.

"I don't know that I'll be buying these," Hermione said, looking at herself uncertainly in the mirror.

"Oh, but my darling, they suit you so well!" cried the shopkeeper, with the two other women nodding fervently in agreement.

"But they're…they're rather daring, aren't they?" she asked, looking unsurely at Lupin, who shrugged very neutrally. Hermione guessed that he had not had occasion to go clothes shopping with girls much - or spend so much time in a respected establishment as Madam Malkin's - since he became a werewolf, and felt a sudden rush of gratitude to this man who had so easily become such a friend and mentor to her.

Madam Malkin agreed that they may be daring, but then Hermione was coming into her own as a woman - a formidable witch, a war-heroine, the top of her graduating class, and soon about to set the Ministry on its ears, if the _Prophet _was to be believed - and shouldn't she have something that high-lighted that side of her? Unsure of how best to reply, Hermione weakly gave in.

It was time for Lupin to be back at his office, which Hermione happily escorted him to with a huge flow of thanks and appreciation - for his mentorship, his friendship, and of course his present. Seeing him safely ensconced behind a wall of paperwork, Hermione turned her attention to the books she intended to purchase.

Each sickle spent seemed to garner more confidence for Hermione - she felt as if she understood, at long last, what Lavender and Parvati had meant when they talked about retail therapy. She had her new books and notebooks, she had new robes more appropriate to her position, she had her potions ingredients and a marvelous new kit to put them in - and she had a piece of parchment safely tucked away in the archives of the Ministry of Magic: all of which confirmed her new position as the Potions Master's apprentice.

_Do your worst, Professor_, she thought with a proud smile, waiting in line to pay for her books, _and I'll do my best - we'll just see who wins._

* * *

A/N. This coming week is super busy, so you should probably only expect one chapter between now and next Sunday. Also, sorry this chapter was delayed. I intended to have it up on Saturday, but FF.N wasn't allowing me to log in for some bizarre reason. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!

Big thanks to alert reader PhxFether for pointing out some typographical errors in the last chapter.

Side note: I don't know if I want this story to be all Hermione's PoV, or if I should throw a little Snape PoV in there for good measure – and that's a choice that needs to be made soon. Have an opinion? Let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 5: The First Day

Chapter 5: The First Day

Anti-Litigation Charm

This entire story is based off the works of the inimitable JK Rowling, who I respect more than I can properly put into words.

There's a great deal more Snape interaction in this chapter, and I'd like to know what you think of it – or anything else about the fic so far. Please review!

* * *

When Hermione awoke the next morning, it was from dreams in which Professor Snape – the towering, menacing dungeons master she remembered from her first year at Hogwarts – demanded to know why she had wasted his time by forming an apprenticeship when she was incapable of brewing even the most basic of potions, after she had somehow managed to melt a cauldron without fire.

Despite the fact that these were, in truth, just dreams, they left Hermione in a very poor way.

She toyed briefly with the idea of Flooing over to Ron's flat, but she couldn't discuss her silly fears in any venue where Ron might overhear her – she refused to give him the satisfaction. She then thought of talking to Lupin as an alternative, but after everything the man had done to encourage and help her on the road to this apprenticeship, she felt that it would be highly ungracious to turn his ear with her angst.

And so it was that she ended up talking to Crookshanks, her most faithful confidante and pragmatic adviser, as she went about preparing for the day.

"I don't know what I was thinking, Crooks," she told the cat frankly, "The last two months were pleasant enough – at least, he wasn't being _actively_ horrible – but I just _know _that I'll ruin something or displease him somehow, and he'll regret ever agreeing to this!"

In lieu of a response, Crookshanks simply butted his head against her leg before hopping onto her bed, curling himself into a careless pile of fur.

As she dressed, Hermione noted that the new robes had been an excellent idea. It was very hard to feel like a bumbling, erring student when she was out of the robes she most associated with that awkward phase of life. With these more suitable robes, she looked the part of a potions apprentice, which she dearly hoped would make it easier to _act_ the part.

Despite the slight ease in her worries, Hermione was unable to face the prospect of eating. Faced as she was with the start of an entirely new sort of schooling experience with a man that she knew from experience to be extraordinarily critical, she was bemused to find herself suffering from first-day-of-school nerves as well as last-moments-before-a-final-exam nerves. It was a disconcerting combination, but she did her level best to push her anxieties into the rear of her mind.

Wrestling for control of her thoughts sparked an idea in Hermione: three years was an awfully long time to study only potion-making, and if what McGonagall had said about most apprenticeships being fairly general, she would have plenty of opportunity to study Occlumency. Although she wasn't thrilled, after hearing Harry's recounting of his lessons with Snape, of handing the man access to her most private or painful memories, the allure of understanding the art of controlling her own mind and emotions could hardly fail to appeal to her.

As Hermione thought of Snape's library and curriculum vitae, the enormity of the research and study opportunities with which she was faced dawned upon her for the first time. Despite having _known_ that she'd be studying a great deal of diverse material, despite having _seen_ the extensive library that the man had at his command, the vastness of the possibilities had never truly occurred to Hermione.

Faced with such an exciting prospect – three years of uninterrupted, unimpaired learning! - it was inevitable that Hermione's attitude improved significantly. Even if she still was not comfortable with the thought of food, she was in a significantly better frame of mind as she finished her preparations.

When she knocked on the door at Spinner's End a short while later, it opened automatically once again, and she let herself in. Making her way to the study, Hermione was fairly certain that she heard sounds of activity in the laboratory down-stairs, but she was unwilling to investigate without being invited down, as she still felt very much an intruder in this private man's home. The study was a fairly impersonal room, and the one in which it seemed most reasonable to wait for Snape's attention. Over what she imagined to be quite a large stretch of years, the presence of so many leather-bound, aged books left the entire house smelling like a library, which Hermione found comforting. Surrounded as she was by the familiar sights and scents of old books and stacks of parchment, it was hard to feel entirely out of place.

Before she had time to really lose herself in a perusal of the books that covered the walls of this room, Snape was walking into the room, nodding curtly in greeting.

"Good morning, sir," Hermione said as cheerfully as she could, firmly telling herself that she was _not_ worried, because _nothing _could possibly go wrong, "How are you?"

"As well as ever, Miss Granger," he said in a neutral tone, not bothering to inquire about her own health.

"I trust you brought your notebooks?" he asked – and Hermione was pleasantly surprised that his tone was, if not actually pleasant, at least not particularly bitter. He had, she noticed with some relief, left out the tone of resignation and near-despair that had coloured his voice for most of yesterday's encounter. It almost sounded like he actually _did _trust her to be adequately prepared.

She held out the notebooks in answer, and he nodded again.

"Very well," Snape said, and Hermione told herself that that was startlingly close to a commendation. Maybe this wouldn't be such a harsh apprenticeship after all.

"These coming weeks," he said abruptly, "will be spent in instilling proper habits of thought, work, and study."

Hermione nodded absently, wondering why he hadn't been trying to 'instill proper habits' in the months prior to a formal apprenticeship.

"Begin by writing out the properties of abalone flesh, as well as potions it is used in – grouped by type –, its notable synergies with other ingredients, and methods of preparation. Write each list from your own knowledge, and after I have checked it over you may _then_ take refuge in your books to fill in any gaps. When you have finished with abalone flesh, move on to abalone shells. When both lists are complete – checked, a second time, by myself, you will come to the laboratory." These commands were delivered without inflection – indeed, Snape wasn't even looking at her. Hermione was struck by the urge to check around the room to make sure that there was no one else he could be talking to.

"Sir, do you want me to write the lists out by hand, or may I give dictation?"

Snape met her eyes, and she saw what she hoped was an approving look, before he resumed his indifferent expression. "This is not a classroom, and you are not being punished, Miss Granger. Take your notes however you best see fit – you know whether it will do you a disservice to use a magical shortcut far better than I."

Hermione was grateful that Snape took this approach. She could complete her lists much more efficiently and neatly if she wasn't hand-writing everything.

"This notebook," Snape said, laying one long, delicate finger on the item in question, "will hold, by the time you are through with it, a compendium of mundane and magical potions ingredients, as well as their uses and properties. You are to have this – as well as your other journals – with you at _all _times. Do not keep them in that ridiculous handbag of yours; I will not allow time to be wasted as you rummage around in the dratted thing every time you need to reference your own notes. Create a book-bag, a coin-purse, anything – but it is to be only for your own note-keeping materials, do I make myself _quite _clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Hermione, wondering gloomily if Snape would _ever _give her his approval. _As if you need his approval_, she reproved herself silently, _when you've already got his instruction. You can be mollycoddled elsewhere; you're here to _learn.

With a sharp nod, Snape swept from the room. Pulling a Dicto-quill – Harry's graduation gift to her - out of her bag, Hermione sat down – grateful, as she did so, that her new robes did not strangle her as her old, loose ones had if she sat down too quickly. She dipped her quill once in ink and then balanced the tip on the second clean page in her notebook.

"Abalone – Flesh," she said clearly, closing her eyes to concentrate. "Properties..."

Hermione leaned back as she spoke, opening her eyes occasionally to follow the movements of the quill. It did not take very long to create the lists that Snape had demanded, but Hermione felt like it was a grueling process. She was not used to the stone-cold recall of facts – rather, when information was needed, it was her wont to go to books, no matter how well she thought she might know the information. It was always comforting, somehow, to be able to read the information, to know that she was missing nothing that the author himself had not missed, that her mind was not skewing or miss-representing any little fact. So to pull up a reasonably complete definition of a potions ingredient entirely from her own memory was a peculiar feat – Hermione felt strangely accomplished.

Turning the page, she re-balanced her pen, and repeated the process of defining the properties, uses, and synergies of abalone shells.

When she was, after re-reading her lists in hopes that some missed fact would pop out at her, reasonably certain that she had written down everything she could possibly be expected to know about abalone shells and flesh, Hermione took the notebook into Snape's lab, where he was reading in the side study, his head bent over a particularly huge, aged text. Her new master seemed so engrossed in what he was reading that Hermione was hesitant to interrupt him. She waited patiently as he read, and only when he lifted a hand to turn the page did she clear her throat to catch his attention.

At her sound, Snape looked up sharply, a suspicious look in his narrowed eyes. As he caught sight of her, his suddenly tense frame relaxed – _there's a first time for everything, _Hermione noted with amusement, _Professor Snape, relaxing at the sight of _me. _How many years will it be before some of the suspicious nature that kept him alive during the war starts to fade?_

"I've finished the lists as best I can, sir," she said, holding out her notebook for inspection.

Wordlessly, Snape read through the two lists, his face entirely passive as his eyes scanned down the pages.

"Double-check your notes against any books you might have – or those which you may find in the study. You've left the potion Somnium and the Scintillating Solution off of the list of notable uses of the abalone shell, specifically – make sure you include it," he instructed, returning his attention to the book before him.

As he leaned forward in concentration a curtain of hair swept forward, effectively hiding his face. Hermione felt as if she could stand there for as long as his attention was fixed on the book, and that he would take no notice of her until he had finished whatever reading he had set out to do. The professor had apparently perfected the art of tuning people out – given the state of constant chaos in the Gryffindor common room, Hermione had made wonderful progress in that area, but she found herself a little wrong-footed by being on the receiving end of such treatment.

When given the choice between returning to her parents' to retrieve her own books or getting to explore another facet of Snape's library, Hermione's way forward was clear: she returned to the study, where she quickly began scanning the shelves in search for a text that would help her. If she took a little longer than was necessary to find Beaumont Majoribanks' _Encyclopedia of Coast-Dwelling Creatures_, if her gaze lingered over-long on the back-issues of _Potion Faire_, and if her fingers strayed treacherously towards the spines of several ancient books, she told herself that she was merely being thorough in her search for the best resources.

Setting the _Encyclopedia _down with great care, she leafed through the ancient, care-worn pages, wondering if her library would ever be magnificent enough to rival Snape's own.

At length, after comparing her own notes scrupulously to those in the book, adding the potions that Snape had suggested, and making what other small corrections seemed best, Hermione felt she'd acquitted herself as thoroughly as possible. Feeling rather pleased – and making careful mental note of what properties and potions she had not thought to put on the list originally, in case the knowledge should come in handy – she headed back down to the down-stairs study.

Professor Snape appeared, once again, to be completely oblivious to her presence, so Hermione set her notes down on the table in a bid for his attention.

Without a word, the man turned to survey her additions, frowning thoughtfully. He nodded, closing the notebook and sliding it back toward her. Since this action was accompanied by no scathing remark or demand that she re-check her facts, Hermione took that to be a sign of approval.

"Time to turn your focus to practical laboratory work," he instructed, standing and beckoning for her to follow him into the lab proper.

"What potion am I to be brewing today, sir?" It was too much to hope, apparently, that he'd tell her what potion she'd brewed the last time around, but there was always a chance that he'd be less cryptic now.

"None. Your education and skill will be re-built from the ground up. That begins with the preparation of ingredients."

This caught Hermione off-guard. "I – what?" Her spirits fell a little bit. Had she really done so poorly in her preparation of the unnamed potion that he felt it was necessary to re-teach her from the ground up? _Stop being silly, _she scolded herself. _If you'd done that badly, you wouldn't be here at all. _A little embarrassed by her initial reaction, Hermione waited patiently for her professor to continue.

Snape let out an exasperated sigh. Holding out an abalone shell in one hand and a stone mortar and pestle in the other, he told her, in clipped tones, to grind it.

Years of conditioned response to Snape's orders given in that tone kicked in, and Hermione meekly obeyed.

"Unacceptable," Snape said as he took the tools from Hermione's grasp, and with a few deft movements, he had reduced the abalone to a perfectly homogenous pile of glittering dust.

"Each ingredient must be perfectly prepared, and this preparation must be consistent in everything you do."

Taking a new abalone shell, he laid it in the mortar.

"Watch carefully," he instructed. He delivered a series of sharp, precise jabs at the shell, moving slowly so that Hermione could follow his movements. When the shell had been reduced to a series of fairly even shards, he paused.

"Broken," he said, and he set to work again, this time with a more controlled rocking movement, stopping after only a few passes.

"Crushed," he said, allowing her a moment to observe the small flakes of shell.

Now he repeated the motions he had first shown Hermione, leaving the shell once again as nothing more than a pile of dust. "Ground," he said.

As she watched him, Hermione wondered if she would ever gain his self-assuredness, the fluid grace of his movements. Lupin's appraisal of her master's skill came to mind, and she quite agreed with his assessment.

Snape was looking at her now, apparently awaiting a sign that she had grasped his demonstration. She nodded belatedly, and Snape turned the mortar and pestle to her, along with a new shell.

"Now," he said in a bored tone, "break it."

Hermione complied, trying to mimic his movements. The shards were not quite perfect, she thought, but they were close.

Snape turned the mortar over, creating a small pile on the work table's surface. He replaced the broken shell with a fresh one.

"Again, properly," he said.

Again, Hermione came close to the precision of Snape's movements – but not close enough.

After once again creating a small pile on the table top, Snape lifted a huge, bulging sack of abalone shells, setting it with a dull clatter on the table. Hermione's eyes widened even as her heart sank.

"You will break each of these into perfect shards," he said. "Keep them all in separate piles. I will check on your progress, and once you have satisfactorily broken them, you will progress to crushing them. If I discover," he added in a menacing tone, "that you are not pursuing this task with the entirety of your considerable concentration, I will be _severely_ displeased."

Setting her shoulders and lifting her chin in determination, Hermione nodded, wordlessly picking up the first of what appeared to be more than a hundred shells. She was set on not rising to his bait: she told herself that her professor would not hear her complain, would not see her look discouraged.

She brought the pestle down onto the first shell, pleased to see it crack and splinter in much the same way as the shell that Snape had attacked. Apparently satisfied that Hermione would do as she was bid, the man turned his back to her and vanished through the door leading to the little study, leaving Hermione alone in the lab with a tremendous amount of abalone shells to break. Hermione allowed herself to wonder what potion he was planning on brewing, that he would use her to prepare such a large quantity of ingredients. _How do you know it's not just for your own good?_ a part of her that Hermione had always thought of as her inner Hufflepuff asked. _He's a Slytherin_, she reminded that part, finishing her first shell and dumping it into a neat pile near the two that Snape had generated, _it wouldn't be like him to be anything but self-serving. _

_Of course, _a different, sneaky little voice reminded her, _you _did _offer essential servitude to him, trying to convince him to take you on. Besides, your technique _does _need improving.._

Hermione recalled Snape's statement from the day before about 'working toward the betterment of her skills.' She supposed that this was the sort of thing that he'd been referring to.

Crushing abalone shells certainly wasn't glamorous, like brewing a particularly tricky draught, and it wasn't rewarding in the same way that studying and research was – but it was necessary, it was part of the process, and it would hopefully help her to be a better potioneer in the long run.

Coming to this acceptance significantly improved Hermione's frame of mind, and it was with a smile – and great care – that she continued to pursue her task.

As she tipped her mortar out to create the twenty-sixth pile, Snape came out of the study to watch her movements. He observed her in silence as she broke the twenty-seventh shell, and as she deposited it in a new pile, he sorted through the shards, sifting the pile through his fingers. Hermione, watching his face for signs of approval, saw him purse his lips – but it was not a displeased expression, merely a pensive one. Without diverting his gaze from the shells, he simply said "Continue, Miss Granger."

With a grin, Hermione did as she was told.

Snape could be as curt as he liked, but she knew he was pleased.

As Hermione worked her way through the bag of shells, covering the table with orderly piles of broken shells, Snape had begun brewing something at the other work-table. Although he seemed absorbed in his work, he periodically looked over to monitor her progress.

After a little over an hour, Hermione broke the last shell, unable to keep a victorious smile off her face as she created the last pile.

Noticing the pause in her labor, the Potions Master walked over, Summoning two glass jars as he surveyed the neat piles.

"Put half of your crushed shells into this jar," he said, setting one down on the work bench, and beginning to scoop some of the broken shells into the jar still in his hand, "and leave the other half in piles to be inspected and then ground."

"Yes sir," Hermione replied as he swept roughly a third of the shells into his jar and moved toward the storeroom. Resolutely, she scooped the first pile of shards into the mortar, mimicking the rocking movements that Snape had showed her.

Time-consuming as the work was, it was not difficult. After getting comfortable with the motion of the pestle – and seeing Snape's nod of approval at her efforts – Hermione felt more comfortable to look around the room, watching the professor work on his potion.

"What potion is _that_, sir?" she asked after watching him work for long minutes of peaceable silence, unable to recognize it by the ingredients that he was putting in. The appearance of yet another brew that she didn't recognize had her feeling a little put-off, although she was glad that she wasn't responsible for brewing this one.

"It is none yet," he said, remaining bent over the cauldron, apparently watching it quite closely.

"What potion _will_ it be, then?"

The pause that followed made Hermione wonder if Snape had heard her at all, so clearly absorbed in observing the potion was he. A smaller part of her worried that he was simply refusing to answer her question, which suggested that she was in for a long, silent journey.

"A strengthening potion," he finally said.

"I've never seen a Strengthening Serum made with rose hips," Hermione commented, sealing the jar with half of her crushed abalone shells and continuing to form small piles of the rest.

Seeing that she was done with the jar, Snape moved over to take it into the storeroom, returning with another empty jar. "When you have finished crushing all the shells, begin to grind them – and collect the powder in this."

She nodded, and he moved back to observing his potion as he answered her unspoken question, "This is not a Strengthening Serum, specifically. It is a variant to be used by bed-ridden patients, to work against the atrophy of muscles and the wasting of the body."

"I've never heard of it," Hermione said, curiosity evident in her tone.

Snape spared a moment from his cauldron to cast her a withering look. "Of course you have not, Miss Granger. It has not been invented yet."

That, she decided, made her feel significantly better about her ignorance of it.

No response suggested itself to Hermione, so she quietly returned her attention to the work of crushing the remaining shells. As she moved to begin grinding them, Snape began to speak again.

"Given the intended use of the potion, why would rose hips be included, Miss Granger?"

She tilted the first mound of ground abalone dust into the jar as she thought about the answer. "Rose hips promote calmness and drowsiness, which I suppose would be helpful to give to people who are trying to recuperate. They're full of the Vitamin C, as well, which naturally promotes the immune system. Do wizards subscribe to the idea of Muggle vitamins and nutrients?" she asked, unsure of how closely Muggle science was matched by wizarding science.

"As with most things born of the Muggle world," Snape said drily, making notes as he peered into the cauldron, "there is a greatly...divided...response. Those of us who are _not_ predisposed to view Muggles as incapable of intelligent thought accept, for the most part, that Muggles have the right idea of associating certain similarities to an inherent, shared aspect of different plants and minerals – Muggles are simply limited in the breadth of their ideas. For example, wizarding science understands that powdered moonstone and rose hips both promote emotional balance and calm, but there is no notion of that being a 'vitamin' that is shared by the stone and the plant. They simply have similar basic properties, which is why one can often times be substituted for the other in certain recipes. Why," he asked, throwing another glance in her direction, "do you suppose it is that rose hips are being used in this case, as opposed to powdered moonstone?"

"Moonstone is inherently magical," Hermione responded promptly, "whereas rose hips are not. I imagine that they're being used, then, because there's not as much chance that they'll interfere with any other potions that a patient might be taking, or spell effects they might be under."

Snape nodded, adding more ingredients to the cauldron and apparently forgetting about Hermione's existence.

When abalone shells were finally all ground, Hermione took great pleasure in tilting the last palm-full into the jar and sealing it decisively.

"Come stir this, counter-clockwise, while I put those away," Snape said after turning the flames beneath his cauldron down so the potion could simmer. "Be gentle about it."

There was, Hermione, decided as she took hold of the stirring rod, nothing quite so intimidating as being left in charge of a completely unfamiliar potion that your new master was developing.

"How long have you been developing this?" she called after him, stirring quite carefully.

"Not yet a month," Snape said as he returned and plucked the stirring rod from her grasp, looking at one of the timers on the wall and adding a clockwise stir, "although it has been a preoccupation of mine for..quite some time."

It didn't take a great deal of cleverness for Hermione to understand that his experience in St. Mungo's hospital had likely provided the impetus for this experiment. She watched as Snape finished stirring the potion, decanting it and marking the vial with a date and recipe version.

"How are you testing it?" she asked as she trailed him out of the lab and up the stairs into the parlour.

"St. Mungo's is full of bed-ridden patients, is it not?" he asked acerbically, throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire and sticking his hand into the flames. He withdrew his hand and stood up.

"When you return tomorrow, I expect your notebook to have lists of the properties, uses, and synergies of the Abyssinian shrivelfig, and you will have an essay about the primary function of abalone shells, with a great deal of emphasis placed upon its role in both the Scintillating Solution and Somnium," he said, fixing her with a dark look. "Although I do not expect you to _linger_ here," he sneered, "you may remain for as long as you require to make use of the library."

"How long do you want the essay to be, sir?" Hermione asked, grateful that he was apparently leaving her to her own devices for the time being – she was beginning to grow very hungry indeed after missing breakfast, and the thought of sitting down to lunch with this man was a little more than she could yet bear.

"As long as it needs to be and no longer," he said impatiently. "You are a school-girl no more, Miss Granger, and as such you will need to exercise a great deal more initiative and self-guidance than you are apparently used to." Snape turned from her in a clear dismissal, and Hermione wondered if this mercurial side of Severus Snape was really all that better than when he had simply been consistently ill-tempered at Hogwarts. A time or two during the day, he had been – not nice, certainly – but neutral and cordial toward her, but it always seemed to be followed by his usual bad grace.

However, she could voice none of these thoughts, so she simply said "Yes, sir," and decided that the time to leave was now. She could always, she hoped, come back during the afternoon if she needed to avail herself of the library.

* * *

As she returned home, Hermione hoped that she soon _would_ be familiar enough with her master that she might actually be allowed to eat – if not with him, at least at his home. After seven years of communal meals and eating at the overcrowded kitchen at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow most of the time she was away from Hogwarts' Great Hall, it was very peculiar to be eating alone. Everybody in her life worked during the day, so lunch times were a very lonely occasion, graced only occasionally by Crookshanks, when he was feeling lucky enough to try to beg for some table scraps.

The solitude of the early afternoon abated a little when a little owl started tapping at the window as Hermione sat in her room, dictating notes on the potions that the shrivelfig was most famously used in. The tiny owl ruffled its tawny feathers as she removed its burden, giving Crookshanks a deeply mistrustful look. Crookshanks, for his part, seemed to have decided that the little bird was not worth his effort: after giving it a lazy yawn (menacingly showing off his pointed teeth), he curled up and pointedly ignored the visitor.

The envelope held a note from Harry.

_Hermione,  
Hope the first real day of your apprenticeship is going well. Can you tell if Snape – yeah, I know, "it's Professor Snape, Harry" - is going to have you working on weekends? Only, Ron, Remus, a__nd I were thinking that, since this Sunday is the nineteenth, we might do something for your birthday – Ron suggested a day trip somewhere, maybe. What do you reckon are the chances we can steal you away from him already? We don't want to take up your dinner, since I know that's when your parents are about (how are they doing?), but you know we've got to do something_.  
_Let us know,  
Harry._

This note cheered Hermione remarkably. She hadn't _quite _forgotten that her birthday was fast approaching, but neither had she been really looking forward to any plans for it. The date was so close to the start of school that it had often passed fairly unnoticed while they were at Hogwarts, although Harry had kept up a pretty good track record of remembering before dinner was over on the day of. It was nice to think that the fact that they had not only remembered, but were making plans ahead of time, was a sign of maturity, although Hermione had a suspicion that it might have something to do with Harry's association with Remus. Either way, it was a thoughtful gesture.

Since she was planning to return to Spinner's End soon to do a touch of research anyway, it would hopefully be a simple enough thing to find out Snape's plan for the weekend, so Hermione decided to hold off on sending a response to Harry until she could actually answer his question.

"Thank you," she told the bird politely, gesturing for it to be on its way out the window again, "but I won't be needing your services."

Looking gravely offended, the little bird exited, and Hermione sat back in satisfaction, finishing her notes on the shrivelfig and collecting what books she thought might be helpful for the essay on abalone shells as she prepared to return to Snape's house.

Sounds of activity in the lab suggested that Snape was still at work over one potion or another, and as Hermione saw no need to disturb him, she settled quietly into the study. Pulling out her Dicto-Quill, she resumed working on the abalone essay while searching through the shelves for further resources.

It was hours before she was done, but Hermione was pleased. The essay, she felt, was short and to the point – most of her time had been spent in simply reading through the various books she had pulled down, purely for her own pleasure. She regretfully pushed the books to one side, giving her parchment a final read-through before rolling it up and sealing it.

It was only when she stretched and began replacing the different source books she'd used that Hermione was struck by how late it really was. She had returned to the study at half two, and it was nearly eight in the evening – and she had heard no sign in the entire stretch of time that Snape had ever left the lab. She had never really had so much time uninterrupted while at Hogwarts, or during summers at the Burrow or Grimmauld Place – it was an odd sensation, to have been able to work for so many hours at a time without being distracted or waylaid. Hermione found that she quite liked it, and then found herself wondering how peculiar it was that she would find a kindred spirit – in matters of reading and studying, at least – in Severus Snape, of all people. _I wonder how long we both would have worked_, she wondered idly, _if I hadn't finished my essay when I had? _The idea that, with no external interference, she and Snape might find themselves totally devoted to their pursuits at all hours of the day, regardless of health or schedule, was amusing – and intriguing. This apprenticeship might be more opportune than she'd thought.

Feeling her own pangs of hunger, and knowing that it was unlikely that Snape had stopped for lunch at all, Hermione debated the value of bringing the man food. She did have a certain duty to him, after all, and she hoped that if she treated him with enough respect and care, he might begin to drop his acerbic facade, or at least tone it down.

Still, she was not feeling quite bold enough for that yet, and assured herself that there would likely be plenty of occasions in the future to work her way into his good graces. For now, she wanted to talk to him about the weekend and then leave him be.

She made her way downstairs, and was unsurprised to find Snape much as she had imagined: standing over a cauldron and looking like he had been doing so all afternoon and evening.

"I was wondering what the schedule for this weekend was going to look like," Hermione ventured, hoping that she wasn't interrupting a crucial moment.

"Already trying to find ways out of your duties, my apprentice?" Snape asked without bothering to look up.

"No, sir," Hermione said frankly, "I'm actually trying to find a way to _not _shirk my lessons. It's my birthday this Sunday, you see, and Harry -" she instantly regretted mentioning her friend by name, as Snape's face darkened with a scowl " -, Ron, and Remus were trying to plan something, only I want to be sure not to miss anything."

Snape left the cauldron and passed into the a moment Hermione wondered if her request had so annoyed him, until he returned with empty phials, apparently to hold more of the strengthening potion. "I did inform you, did I not, that _free time _would be an infrequent luxury?"

"You did, sir."

Snape continued to frown a moment longer, and Hermione waited, trying not to look too anxious. She would be just as happy to celebrate on another night, and was half-wishing she could take back the request if it was going to make Snape think that she didn't value the apprenticeship.

"You know sir, never mind, I-"

"No no, Miss Granger," Snape said evenly. "Your Sunday afternoon – this time 'round, at least – shall be your own."

Hermione, struck by the good fortune of Snape's apparent grace, came near to gaping at the man in front of her. Snape made no move to continue the conversation, but simply began cleaning up the lab. Hermione said goodbye, and receiving no response, took her leave.

Her parents were already asleep by the time that Hermione returned, so she made herself a quiet dinner of left-overs and read through a few chapters in one of her new Potions texts before she made ready for bed.

As Hermione sank into her pillows a short while later, she allowed Crookshanks to curl up on top of her, sinking her fingers into his ginger fur with a sigh of relaxation.

"It was a long day, Crooks," she told the cat sleepily, "maybe tomorrow will be better." As dreams crept over her, Hermione found herself wondering if it was a House trait for Slytherins to be so exhausting to make Gryffindors second-guess themselves.

* * *

As she got up and dressed the next morning, Hermione's first priority was to let Harry know that she was, indeed, free in the afternoon on Sunday. It was still early enough that they shouldn't be at the Aurory yet, so she threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fire, and spun out a moment later in the small flat.

"Morning, Hermione," Harry said pleasantly as he looked in to see who had arrived. "Can I fetch you breakfast? The kippers look a bit diseased, but they taste just fine."

"I'll pass, thanks," she responded drily. "I just came to tell you – I'm free on Sunday afternoons – or at least this one - so go ahead with whatever plans you'd like."

"Fantastic!" said Ron, as he wandered into the room with a heavily-laden plate clutched in one hand. "Good to know that the git isn't going to demand all of your time."

"_Ronald_," Hermione said with a huff of annoyance, but she made no real attempt at a rebuttal.

Harry, who had lately seemed determined to ignore Ron's ill manners in regard to Snape in the hope that a lack of response would discourage him, asked Hermione how her first 'real day' had gone.

"Oh, it was fine," Herminoe assured him. "I think he's going to be taking a bit more of an active role than I expected, so I'm adjusting to that idea."

"What do you mean, more active?" Ron cut in suspiciously, with what appeared to be an entire sausage crammed in his mouth.

"Just that. I didn't really expect him to do much more than assign potions for me to make and demand an update on what I was studying every so often. It's an improvement, I think, I just didn't expect him to actually take an interest in my education."

Ron glowered a little at the word 'interest,' but kept any theories he might have had to himself.

"I don't suppose I'll ever understand what it is about you and your studies," Harry said with a grin, "but I'm glad you're happy."

"I will be," Hermione said in response. "Not that I'd complain if he had a sudden personality change..."

Both Harry and Ron laughed at this, and Hermione excused herself, noting that Harry had been making anxious glances at the clock. With a hug for each of the boys, she returned to her parents' house briefly before Apparating to Spinner's End to begin the second day.

* * *

A/N – Surprise! Today was a very good day for me, so I decided to take some 'me' time and get another chapter revised and posted. That means that there's still hope for another chapter later in the week or during the weekend. :D

Review button's just down below, if you hadn't seen it. ;)


	7. Chapter 6: Lessons

Chapter 6: Lessons

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

All the world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling – I just play for non-profit.

The number of readers, subscribers, and favorites that this story is getting astounds me. Thanks to those who supported this story so far – and peremptory thanks to those of you who _will_ _review this chapter_. *Jedi mind-control hand-wave*

Cheers!

* * *

The front door at Spinner's End swung open at Hermione's knock, but the professor was nowhere to be seen. She moved into the study, where she saw her notebook and essay precisely where she had left them. Gathering them up and wondering if Snape would take her to task for leaving her things in what he might rightfully consider his private space, she walked down to the lab.

"Good morning, Professor," she said as brightly as she could, looking in from the doorway. When Snape made no response – he was rummaging through shelves in the store room – Hermione stepped into the room with him.

"I've brought my essay and notes," she added lightly.

"I would expect nothing less, Miss Granger," he said evenly, brushing past her into the main room of the laboratory. In his hands was a large container with the label _"whole shrivelfigs, Abyssinian." _He set this down on the table Hermione had worked at the day before, next to an empty jar, already labeled _"Abyssinian shrivelfigs – skinned_" in the Potions Master's distinctive spiky script. He held out his hands in wordless demand of her essay and notebook.

Handing these to him, Hermione steadfastly reminded herself that ingredient preparation was genuinely valuable work, not punishment. No matter how much skinning shrivelfigs might _sound_ like most any Potions detention story she'd ever heard, this was to develop her technique, not to discipline her.

"Do you require a demonstration of the proper way to skin a shrivelfig, Miss Granger?" he asked in an entirely disinterested tone.

"I don't think so, sir," Hermione responded, hoping that she could find a balance between being confident in her abilities and not inviting extra criticism if she failed to live up to her own estimation.

"Show me."

She complied, taking the silver knife from the table, making five shallow, length-wise cuts along the fig and neatly peeling back the sections, leaving the pith of the fig on the table and dicing the outer layers of skin.

"Did I instruct you to prepare the skin"?" Snape asked silkily, raising one eyebrow dangerously.

Hermione thought it was a good sign that he was attacking her thoroughness, rather than any shoddiness he found in her technique. "No, sir," she responded simply.

"Then why, pray tell, did you do so?"

"I noticed that you were low on shrivelfig skin when I was putting the staghorn beetle parts away a while back, sir," she answered honestly. She met his icy gaze with as steady and amiable a look as possible, and thought she detected a gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes.

Without saying anything, Snape placed another jar on the table and turned away.

Hermione wondered where Snape had procured the second jar from, and then saw that it was already labeled – he had clearly been planning on having her save the skins all along. She allowed herself a brief flash of triumph, feeling as if she'd passed a sort of test.

Snape busied himself over a cauldron – Hermione kept sending stealthy looks in his direction and made note, as best she could, of the ingredients and steps. The box of shrivelfigs was as large as the previous day's sack of abalone had been, but Hermione was not daunted. She sliced and diced her way through the mound with great care and found herself taking satisfaction in each perfectly-skinned fig, in every perfectly-cut skin. Between glances at Snape's cauldron – she thought he was preparing the same strengthening potion as before – Hermione occupied her mind by mentally reciting the properties and uses of shrivelfigs and listening every potion she could think of that used them.

With her mind and hands so occupied, the task passed very quickly. Before she could really feel the tedium of the chore, the box of whole shrivelfigs was empty, and she was sealing the jars of piths and skins.

"Put those away," came Snape's voice from behind her, startling her. Always pleased for an opportunity to go into the store room – they were rare, as Snape apparently considered anyone other than himself untrustworthy – Hermione obeyed.

The store room was lined with shelves, much like the rest of the house, but these shelves had been divided to make a pattern of cubby-holes. In addition to the wall lining, there were four free-standing, double-sided sets of shelves, all of which were carefully labeled, holding ingredients sorted first by type (animal, vegetable, mineral) and then by name and method of preparation. The bottom level of each of the wall-length shelves was charmed with a stringent protective spell which Hermione assumed needed a pass-phrase to undo, and held the more volatile ingredients, while the far wall from the door had a complex series of cooling charms to provide cold storage. The room was always immaculate and perfectly ordered, and it smelled faintly of lavender and earth. Hermione found the room to be extremely comforting.

After taking a moment to drink in the warm scent and practicality of the room, Hermione stowed away the shrivelfig parts. She checked and double-checked the shelves, making sure that she'd stored the ingredients in their proper place – she had only once before been trusted with storing ingredients, although Snape had no problem sending her to fetch something, and she wanted to make sure that he had no reason to doubt her ability to find the right cubby.

Returning to the lab proper, Hermione was largely unsurprised to see another pile of ingredients on what she'd come to think of as 'her' work table. There was a large bundle of aconite as well as two jars awaiting preparation.

"Strip and save the leaves and flowers," Snape instructed, already removed to his own workstation once again, "and grind the stems into powder. I trust that this is a task you can accomplish without supervision?" He gave her a sharp look.

"Yes, sir," Hermione said dutifully. It was not lost on her that he had apparently already assumed that she was capable of preparing aconite without his instruction – at least, he wasn't looming over her as he had before allowing her to prepare the shrivelfigs or abalone. _Maybe if I don't listen to the way he speaks, but just pay attention to his actions, _she thought wryly, _I'll start to get the impression that he doesn't consider me to be a total imbecile._

She put away her silver knife, undid the twine holding the aconite together, and set to work. Aconite had a light scent that reminded her of her grandfather's pipe tobacco. Hermione breathed in deeply as she stripped leaves from their stems, releasing more of the fragrance.

"Miss Granger," Snape's sharp voice cut in on her ruminations, "_what are you doing_?"

Hermione stopped, giving her professor a wide-eyed look of surprise. She dropped the now-bare twig, tucking her hands behind her back like a child caught reaching into the cookie jar.

"Doing? I was preparing the aconite, sir," she said, totally at a loss for what line she'd crossed.

"Fresh aconite," Snape said, looking very hard at her and enunciating his words with extra care.

"Yes…sir?" The clarification had done nothing for Hermione.

"Tell me, Miss Granger, have you prepared _fresh_ aconite before?"

"I haven't prepared aconite at all, except for the dried leaves I readied for the Wolfsbane potion not long ago, sir," she responded.

"And you simply thought you'd rush ahead into this task, did you? You were confident enough in your knowledge to eschew aid when it was offered to you and charge ahead in ignorance?"

_Apparently so,_ she thought, but managed to bite the thought back. "Was I preparing it incorrectly?"

"Not technically," sniffed the Potions Master disdainfully.

"Then I'm afraid I don't understand, sir," she said with frank puzzlement.

"The action of preparation was correct," he reiterated, "but unless you wish to suffer nerve damage and arrhythmia, I suggest you provide yourself with gloves. The sap of fresh aconite is toxic."

Hermione fairly flew over to the sink, scrubbing her hands hurriedly. Her back being turned to him, she missed the look of amusement that flitted over the man's normally impassive face.

"You are quite the perfect embodiment of your House, Miss Granger," he said. Despite the fact that his tone held all its normal bite, Hermione thought it sounded less heart-felt than most of his taunts, which was encouraging in a very small way.

Satisfied that her hands were clean – and paying very close attention to the sensations her fingers were reporting back to her in case something should go awry – Hermione returned to the table.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly.

"It does not concern me if you choose to endanger yourself, Miss Granger," came the brusque response.

"I should have made certain that I understood how best to prepare fresh aconite," she added, squaring her shoulders in preparation for one of his famously insulting dressing-downs.

"You should have," he said with a sharp nod. "You will find a spare pair of gloves in the lab study. By the end of the week, I expect you to have procured a set for yourself – or to have informed me if you are incapable of doing so."

This sad, Snape cast her one last stern look, turned on his heel, and returned to his own lab bench, hastily picking up a stirring rod and attending to his potion. A rather stunned Hermione watched him for a moment, waiting for him to turn around or somehow continue with his lecture. Surely, _surely_ that brief reprimand hadn't been all that he had to say on the matter. Hermione had witnessed deductions of house points that had seriously injured Gryffindor's standings, outbursts that had left fifth- and sixth-years in tears, and (one one extraordinarily memorable occasion) a tongue-lashing that had ended with Snape incinerating a student's desk before sending her, sobbing, to the Headmaster's office – all over situations comparable to the error she just made, seemingly small lapses in judgment that had rarely resulted in any actual damage to anyone, although some potions had been irretrievably ruined. So for Snape to merely acknowledge her error and move on – it was like the sun rising in the North: unheard of.

When her made no apparent attempt to resume any lecturing but merely began decanting his potion, Hermione went into the study. The gloves Snape had mentioned were sitting right out on the table. As Hermione had never seen them before, and never known her professor to leave anything aside from books lying around, she assumed that he'd set them out specifically for her. This act, so unlike her school-days concept of Professor Snape, was strangely touching. Hermione shook her head as she tried to imagine Ron's reaction if she told him that Snape had been considerate, had gone even the slightest bit out of his way to do something for her.

She pulled her gloves on as she walked back to her work bench, flexing her fingers. The gloves were very supple and comfortable – she felt barely encumbered at all as she picked up a new piece of aconite and began stripping away the leaves. She worked in silence as Snape left the lab with vials of his potion in hand, she assumed that he was going to Floo them to St. Mungo's as he had with the previous day's efforts.

When he reentered the lab a few minutes later, Snape quietly set about cleaning his supplies, and Hermione took time to appreciate the immaculate care he gave every task. Students had never had much of an opportunity to see the Potions Master at work unless he were correcting someone's flawed technique or demonstrating a particular part of a potion, so it was an experience that Hermione still, after almost two months of their post-schooling acquaintance, was caught by surprise by. The painstaking fashion in which he went about hand-scrubbing every tool and implement was almost daunting. Hermione could easily someone else thinking that Snape was wasting time with his deliberate and measured actions, but she could see the results of it in his flawless lab.

As if he was aware of her scrutiny, Snape began speaking, and at his voice, Hermione hastily resumed her rapid pace of stripping aconite.

"Miss Granger," he said, "can you tell me why some of your class-mate's potions inexplicably failed, despite the fact that they claimed to have followed every step properly?"

"Well, they must have been mistaken, mustn't they, sir?" she asked, noting with pleasure that she was almost done with stripping all of the aconite stems of their leaves.

"What about the ones who were not mistaken?" he persisted.

"I don't know, sir," she responded cautiously. It was a bit rich to assume that she could remember specific instances of other's failures – spectacular as some of them had been – now, when it was more than two years since she'd last been in the same classroom as Snape.

"It has to do with the interaction on different ingredients and essences," he prompted, sweeping past her just as she finished putting the lid on the jar of aconite leaves and picking it up.

"Their ingredients were too fresh or stale?"

"Hardly, Miss Granger," he said from the store-room, hardly bothering to lift his already quiet voice, so that she had to strain to hear him. "If that were the case, there would have been more consistent failure across the class. Consider this: each student is held accountable for cleaning his own equipment, and expected to use _only _his own equipment."

He came out of the store room and returned to the sink, where he began thoroughly drying and replacing his equipment.

"Cross-contamination," Hermione said suddenly, "from poorly washed tools." Remembering the one time that Snape had allowed her to clean his own potion-making equipment, Hermione hoped she'd done well enough at the time – and wondered how long it would be before she'd be trusted with the station again.

Snape said nothing, but merely watched as Hermione ground the aconite stems in a stone mortar, dumping the granules into a smaller jar.

Hermione felt as if the day had progressed fairly well so far – even with her poor approach to the aconite, he had behaved fairly mildly, even if his words were as strict as ever, so she felt it was safe enough to ask a fairly innocuous question.

"The potion you made today – it was the same as the version you gave to St. Mungo's yesterday?" she asked, carefully keeping her eyes on her work.

"Yes," Snape replied curtly, moving away from where he had been watching her progress and vanishing into the study.

"Surely that's a good sign?" she continued, raising her voice to beat the distance he put between them.

"It is would seem encouraging," he replied evasively, and Hermione, hearing the tell-tale thump of books on a tabletop, knew that the conversation was over.

Snape did not reappear at all as she ground the aconite. When she was finished, she sealed the jar carefully and put it away in the store room. He had come out of the study and was on the stairway leading up from the lab as she exited the storeroom, and beckoned for her to follow him.

Together they went into the kitchen, where Hermione was surprised to see the table already set with tea, salad, and a selection of cold-cuts.

"I will not have it said that I neglect my apprentice," Snape said with an abrupt gesture for her to seat herself.

If she didn't examine it too closely, Hermione thought, that was almost a very backhanded way of saying that he was looking after her health and truly did have her best interest at heart. It could just as easily mean that she was no good to him if she passed out from hunger – and now that she didn't have a task to occupy herself with, Hermione was aware that breakfast had been quite some time ago – but she chose not to dwell on that possibility. She sat, giving her curt master a smile of appreciation.

Snape sat opposite her and began pouring tea as Hermione fidgeted with her fork and noted the apparent inequality of the distribution of food – where her plate had a normal, healthy serving of meats and salad, Snape's had what seemed to be no more than a few mouthfuls. Finished with serving the tea, Snape met her critical gaze with his own neutral one, but said nothing; he merely picked up his fork and began taking daintily miniscule bites of salad.

His prim manner reminded Hermione of nothing so much as a finicky cat, and she had to stifle a grin at the mental image of him curling up in front of a fire and preening in a very feline manner.

Although she liked to think of herself as being above the mindless prattle of other girls her age, Hermione was still not one to suffer silence easily. So it was that after only a few moments, in which Snape gave no indication of being inclined to conversation, she began to cast about for a topic to discuss.

Her mind wandered until she remembered that she hadn't actually thanked Snape for allowing her Sunday off. If she wanted this apprenticeship to go well, she figured she might as well start off by being polite as possible. Maybe he would soften up, if he was sure that she really did respect and appreciate him.

"Thank you for allowing me Sunday afternoon," she said after a few more bites of silence.

Snape nodded, as if in thought. He was giving her a pensive look, and Hermione found herself unable to continue speaking.

"...I hope it is an enjoyable one," he said at length, "for you will have very little time with your friends once the next few weeks have gone by."

Hermione looked up from her plate suddenly at the ominous tone to his words.

"What...what will change after that, sir?"

"I will be away on a journey of sorts. The country's climate being what it currently is, politically, I think it will benefit me to spend a good deal of my near future abroad."

"Abroad?" Hermione asked, her voice a squeak of surprise.

"For possibly as much as a year." There was no emotion in Snape's voice or face as he said this – he could have been discussing the weather, or the number of stones in the floor of his laboratory, for all the interest he showed.

"A _year_, Professor?" Hermione repeated, coming very close to incredulous.

"Tut _tut_, Miss Granger," the man responded, Vanishing his half-eated pie and its plate with a wave of his hand, "Less than two days into the apprenticeship, and you already find cause to question my judgment? Where is that vaunted Gryffindor steadfastness? Where the manic dedication?"

Hermione could think of no satisfying way to respond to Snape. She ducked her head and ate in silence for a moment, turning the sudden proclamation over in her head. It occurred to her after a short while that he hadn't mentioned one _exceedingly _important fact.

"So, this travel abroad," she began haltingly, fiddling with her teacup, "I _am _accompanying you, aren't I?" she found that, try as she might, she could not bring herself to look directly at him as she asked this.

"You are my apprentice," Snape said after a long moment's pause. "I would not be so remiss in my duties as to abandon you."

"I thought not, but you didn't say, and I only wanted to be sure," responded Hermione in a rush.

"You take the news ill," he said shortly, fixing her with a scrutinizing gaze. It wasn't a question.

"I suppose so," Hermione admitted, strangely relived by Snape's bluntness. For someone of a House that placed a great deal of emphasis on duplicity and intrigue, he was curiously straightforward about some things. _Mostly his displeasure_, she amended glumly.

"You question, perhaps, the usefulness of such a venture?"

Although his tone was mild, there was a tightness around Snape's eyes that belied his tenseness, and Hermione took the time to finish her salad as she thought over her response.

"I understand that you would not deliberately hinder the progress of the apprenticeship," she said at length.

"And yet you still doubt the wisdom of a journey abroad."

Hermione said nothing, focusing very carefully on finishing her meats.

"Can you _really _think of nothing that you stand to gain from this?" asked Snape, his voice suddenly at its deepest and most dangerous.

"Not particularly," replied Hermione cautiously, unaware of what on Earth he could be hinting at.

"You're more of a fool than I thought," he snapped bitterly. "It was a deluded bit of optimism" - he said that last as though it were a dirty word - "to ever think I could help you develop some small strain of independent thought."

This statement was so venomously spoken that Hermione could think of no response. She simply stared as the man glared at her, his lips drawn back in a haughty sneer.

"You lack practical experience," he stated after a long pause, speaking with deliberate enunciation.

"What about the _year _that -" Hermione began, upset that Snape would dismiss the dangers that she had braved at Harry's side, but Snape held up his hand and cut her off.

"Do you wish to make a career of staying just barely ahead of the now-deceased Dark Lord? No? Do you see yourself in a future where you are forever running from Death Eaters? _No_? Well then, I repeat, _you lack practical experience_." The deriding sneer was gone from his voice, but Snape was no less vehement. His black eyes bored into hers with a daunting intensity whose source Hermione couldn't place, and the fingers that were wrapped around his teacup were white at the knuckle, so fierce was their grip.

"There is only so much you can learn, Miss Granger, while safely tucked within the library walls. As valuable as theoretical knowledge is, it is only half of the balance of true intelligence – words on parchment are rarely a true replacement for actual experience."

Snape paused, breathing in deeply through his nose, still fixing her with that peculiarly keen look.

"Oh, well of course I..." Hermione trailed off. She had been so caught up in the injustice of Snape's deciding – on a whim, as she had first thought – to uproot her life that the possibility that Snape had thought of the benefit to her had not occurred to her. It seemed a distinctly un-Slytherin thing to do.

"I know that," she finished stiffly.

"Do you, indeed," snapped the Potions Master, refilling both of their cups of tea.

"What I _don't _know," she added, "is how I'm to gain any more practical experience on the road than I will staying here." She reminded herself of the several times in the past weeks – in the past two days, even – that Snape had surprised her and made her feel like a fool for expecting the worst of him, but the last two months of experience were pinned against seven solid years of ill-treatment from the man. No matter how much she may have trusted him because of Dumbledore's example, she had never expected, nor received, anything but thinly-veiled cruelty at his hands. The mistrust, then, would be a hard habit to break.

"Have you ever gathered hellebore, Miss Granger?" he gave her a sly look.

"No," she replied cautiously.

"Have you ever seen a glade of sophorous gleaming silver in the moonlight?" Snape leaned forward, capturing her eyes with his own.

"No," came the resigned answer. Hermione could feel her cheeks flushing even as her heart sank in her chest.

"Have you ever had to discern healthy mistletoe from weak, so as not to collect an ineffective harvest?"

"No."

"And have you ever," Snape continued, a very harsh edge now evident in his tone, "had to search out the nest of an Ashwinder under the endless heated sands of the desert?"

"No," replied Hermione, defeated. _Am I never to stop making a fool of myself?_she wondered glumly.

"Then it should be evident to you what _benefit_ you can gain from this venture – and that only in the realm of potion-making. Rest assured, Miss Granger, that you will learn and see more wonders in this trip than your books could ever adequately describe to you."

"Yes, sir," Hermione responded meekly. She thought it was strange to hear him speak so dismissively of book-bound lore, given the extent of his library, and wondered how best to question him on that front without giving offence. Pondering this, she drained her teacup in one long pull, then stood and began clearing away her dishes.

"Thank you for lunch," she said, remembering her resolution to be courteous. _A load of good it's done you_, a sneering part of her brain chided her.

Snape apparently held no compunctions about hand-cleaning cooking utensils, for in lieu of making a response to her thanks, he waved his wand lazily and the plate and cup Hermione had been holding both tugged themselves out of her grasp and began dipping themselves in the sink, which was filling with sudsy water.

The movements of the dishes were very clipped and precise, which was a sharp contrast to the cavorting sport most of the Weasleys' dishes seemed to make of washing up. Hermione smiled a bit at the memory, and then saddened as she thought of the way that all of Snape's animated belongings – or at least those she'd seen – lacked the vivaciousness of their counterparts. There was no question in Hermione's mind that this was a reflection of the owner. She was once again left feeling rather wrong-footed and contrite. It was a very peculiar sensation to feel guilty for being inconsiderate of Snape, when she had been on the receiving end of his inconsideration and even deliberate cruelty so often in the past.

_We'll just have to do better, then, won't we? _cheered her inner Hufflepuff, at the same moment as Snape rose from his seat, sending his dishes gliding towards the sink, and made his way into the study.

"Write out the properties, synergies, and notable uses of aconite, Miss Granger," he said in a bored tone. "When you have completed that list, move on to Acromantula venom and then Ashwinder eggs. When you return tomorrow, I expect that all three lists will be completed and you will have researched the correlation between all the potions that feature Ashwinder eggs. Any _pertinent_ books in this library are at your disposal. Stay as long as you need to use these books, and then make yourself _very _scarce." He gave these instructions in a very clipped tone and then made as if to leave the room.

"Where are we going, sir?" Hermione blurted out hastily. She was sure he wouldn't welcome her company after this point, and wanted to make an effort toward some non-confrontational conversation to end the day well.

"Wherever I deem necessary," he said from the doorway, not turning to face her.

"We'll be traveling about, then?" she asked. "Will we be staying with friends of yours or…" she trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Snape didn't seem the kind to keep international pen-pals, but that was the best situation she could think of.

Snape turned slowly on his heel. "You are familiar with wizarding tents, Miss Granger?" he asked coolly.

_That_ took Hermione completely by surprise. "I am," she said readily, "but I wouldn't think –" she cut herself off.

"Wouldn't think _what_?" ground out Snape tersely.

"I just never really pictured you to be the camping or out-doors type, Professor," Hermione finished lamely.

A moment passed before Snape replied.

"How little well you know me."

As he said this, the customary sneer fell from his face, and Hermione was struck by how strangely young he looked. He turned and exited the room, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. She remembered his gentle words about the hardships of her adolescence, and realized that his had been the same – if not worse. On top of that, his hardships had extended well into his adult years, unlike hers. He'd never had the security that most took for granted.

"_Ugh," _she imagined she heard Ron's voice, _"feeling sorry for Snape? What next, you going to create the SPERM – Society for Protecting Evil, Rude Masters?"_

Hermione frowned at the imagined voice and shook herself mentally, clearing her head of silly thoughts, and turned to work on her research.

* * *

Hermione did not stay long in the house at Spinner's End after her last encounter with Snape. She quickly sorted through his books for a few references, jotted down what notes she deemed necessary, and hurried off. It was unusual for her to feel so at odds with a person, so unsure of how to react or where she stood with someone. As such, Severus Snape was beginning to unnerve her.

Throughout the entirety of her high school career, Hermione had received nothing but derision and what seemed, at times, like loathing from Professor Snape. He was the only teacher who did not recognize and reward her above-and-beyond effort, who did not recognize her work as being exceptional. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to demean her and to take great pleasure in pointing out when she had erred in any way. It had grown into something of a quest for Hermione – to turn in an essay or a potion so perfect that Snape would _have _to admit (however grudgingly) that she had done well.

And yet, she had never succeeded. Even when he gave her the marks she felt she deserved (rare as the occasion was), Snape was silent. True, on those occasions he had reigned in his biting tongue, but Hermione had been determined to earn his approbation. In a way, it was this personal campaign that had shown Hermione how much she liked Potions. By the end of fifth year, she was beginning to understand the reverence in her professor's voice when he talked about the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of the draughts she created. [1] When Horace Slughorn took over Potions in her sixth year, she found herself enjoying the craft as much as she had before, and trying even harder – hoping that Slughorn would be so impressed that he would tell Snape of her excellence and maybe garner praise that way – but Slughorn's praise, sycophantic busybody that he was, meant very little.

But despite all her efforts, Snape had never been anything but indifferent to her at best, and often times cruel and rude. To see him in such different light – he was short in the lab, but not unkind; he answered questions that he would earlier have ridiculed her for asking; he kept his temper in check except for the occasions where _she_ transgressed first – was unsettling. She found herself acting as if she were in the presence of Snape as he had been as her Professor, who was (apparently) a different man from Snape the Potions Master.

_No wonder he made such a good spy_, she thought ruefully, then laughed as the realization that she'd just put herself on the level with Voldemort for discerning people's motives and emotions.

When she was safely back home – away from the mixed comfort of the library and lab and unease of Snape's presence – Hermione worked completed her assignments as thoroughly as possible. She was determined to prove herself equal to the academic challenges of the apprenticeship, since Snape so clearly found her lacking in other aspects.

As she worked, Hermione pondered the best solution to the puzzle of how best to treat Snape. She came, at length, to the conclusion that she would need to stay quiet for a few days and simply observe him, volunteer as little conversation – and, therefore, opportunities to stick her foot in her mouth – as possible, and observe him. Maybe if she waited a few days, her thoughts and opinions would adjust to this man who was not the Professor Snape she was familiar with.

She liked to think that it was a sign of maturity on her part that she could decide that _not _talking as much as possible to prove herself was the best solution; but then reminded herself sternly that she had to see if she could actually follow through on the resolve – after all, hadn't she planned to be polite and respectful towards the man – and failed?

Her lists on potions ingredients complete, Hermione moved on to her research on Ashwinder eggs. Although she took extensive notes and wrote down reminders of many tangential thoughts she wished to pursue, Hermione focused very carefully on keeping the record of her findings on the overarching property of Ashwinder eggs limited to its subject and no others. She still felt free to delve into the issue as deeply as possible, making several references to different journals and texts, feeling very pleased at the comprehensiveness of her approach.

Looking up at the clock, Hermione realized that her parents would be due home soon. Having not quite yet sorted out her own emotions about her sudden travel plans, she wasn't quite certain of how best to bring herself to share the news with them, she paused in her research and left to talk the situation over with the only person she figured would be able to give her a balanced view on the ordeal.

* * *

A very startled Remus and Teddy Lupin looked up at her at the sound of her Apparation.

"That..._man_," she said peremptorily – unable to bring herself, even now, to use any explicitly derogatory name for Snape - "has up and decided to take a holiday! Goodness knows how long out of the country, on a whim of his!"

Lupin stared at her blankly for a moment before the meaning of her words sank in.

"Severus is going abroad?" he asked, "I hope he's taking you with him."

"Of – of course he is," she said quickly, although she almost smiled, remembering how quick her own mind had been to leap to that concern. "He couldn't leave me, could he? It'd be a violation of his contract, I'm sure of it."

"I didn't think it would be simple for a Master to leave their apprentice behind, no," Lupin responded, "I had just thought, from your behavior, that it was something more alarming than learning that you're to be leaving the Isles. Is that really so bad?"

He picked Teddy out of the boy's chair, moving into the sitting room with Hermione trailing after.

"I suppose it isn't," Hermione admitted, "but to just decide it for me like that, and with so little notice, it was just...rather shocking, I suppose," she finished, feeling suddenly very foolish for having reacted as strongly as she did.

"It's his right as your instructor, Hermione," Lupin chided her gently. "And, considering who it is we're talking about, I should be counting myself lucky that I had whole weeks' of notice, were I you."

This gentle tease was enough to replace Hermione's frown with a wan smile.

"I guess I _am _lucky, at that," she agreed. "And even if he's really...high-handed about things, I honestly think that this apprenticeship is going to work out really well, some how. He's so obviously competent in his subject, I can't help but respect him for it and want to learn from it. I'm only hoping that he'll be a little more...human, really, as time goes on."

"It is a long time since Severus has had someone against whom he did not need to guard himself," Remus said with a note of regret in his voice. "He has spent three of the last four years lying to one of the most powerfully evil wizards of magical history; he's spent most of his adult life being manipulated by Dumbledore and abhorred by students; and he's only recently been regarded with anything other than deepest mistrust by the wizarding community at large. Before that he was the unfavored runt of our year at Hogwarts, escaping from the castle only to find himself trapped in the home of a father who hated his very existence. I do not think that being _human _is something he's had a chance to practice much."

Hermione nodded.

"He's an excellent Potions Master and a powerful wizard. Focus on what good he can do you and maybe, in time, he'll benefit from what good _you _can do _him_," Remus added, rocking the visibly sleepy Teddy in his arms.

"Don't let Ron hear you talking like that," Hermione said with a smile. "He'll think that Snape's recruited you for some nefarious plot."

"I've been found out!" said Remus with mock dismay. "There goes the whole plan."

"Thank you, Remus," Hermione said as the man stood up, apparently heading to put Teddy to sleep. "I guess this new arrangement will just take some getting used to."

"If there's anyone who's proven themselves capable of adapting to anything, Hermione, it's you," the man said solemnly. "Good night."

* * *

She returned home, and had just begun pulling out references to start furthering her research down different paths when Hermione heard her parents arrive home from their office. Determined to be calm and collected, she paused at the head of the stairs on her way to greet them, wondering how best to tell them. Slowly, she retreated back into her room, deciding that suppertime would be soon enough to inform them.

Suppertime, unfortunately, came very soon – her parents had brought home fish and chips, and were calling almost immediately for Hermione to join them downstairs. Lifting her chin in determination, Hermione went back out of her room and into the kitchen.

"Hello,Hermione," Mrs. Granger said, immediately sweeping her daughter up in a hug, "how was your day? For that matter, how was yesterday?"

"They were both fine," Hermione reassured her mother, turning to accept her father's hug when it was his turn, before all three sat down to the table and began pulling food out of sacks and passing around napkins and cups in a flurry of chit-chat.

Talk about her parents' day at the office lasted the little family through their brief supper, much to Hermione's increasing discomfort.

Her parents had had a great deal of difficulty with the idea of sending Hermione to a boarding school (let alone a _magical _boarding school!) when she had first received her letter from Hogwarts. After her second year and the incident of the Chamber of Secrets, it had been difficult to persuade them to allow her to return – they only found out about her near-death experience and days of petrification when Hermione had told them about it (much to her chagrin), and were appalled at the idea of sending their daughter back to such a dangerous place. Happily, Hermione had learned from that incident, and had told her parents as little about Sirius Black as possible when she returned after her third year. There was no keeping the return of Voldemort a secret, however, and so it was only with great difficulty – and a great many reassurances from Professor McGonagall – that Hermione was able to convince them to allow her to return to Hogwarts for her fifth year.

No matter what other problems it may have raised, Obliviating her parents had taken care of any qualms they might have otherwise had about her adventures in what should have been her seventh year . That action had, once the Grangers were brought back to themselves, apparently impressed upon them the fact that she was no longer their guileless, defenseless little girl. She hoped that this realization would make her revelation – that she was going to be gone, to an undetermined location and for an indeterminate amount of time, on a studying trip with her master – a little easier to swallow, but that did not mean that she really expected them to take it well.

As everyone began to lean back from the table and the talk died down, Hermione's mother made a motion as if to stand and begin clearing away the mess.

"Let me, Mum," Hermione said, raising her wand as she spoke. The bags and wrappings that the fish and chips had come in folded themselves smartly, organized themselves into a neat stack, and floated over to the rubbish bin. Another wave of her wand set water for tea to heating and caused three of the tea cups on the counter to right themselves and scoot over towards the kettle.

Her mother looked a bit bemused, but she sat down smartly. Ever since their experience with Obliviation, Hermione's parents had been much more cagey about magic – not that Hermione blamed them, she realized sadly. The wizarding world had always been very foreign and impenetrable to these two, and she had destabilized what little comfort they had acquired by her actions. _Not that I wouldn't do it again_, she thought, _but it is a shame. _

"I learnt a little bit about Professor Snape's plans for the immediate future of my apprenticeship," she started lightly as they waited for water to boil. "He's planning to take me abroad so that I can get more 'field experience,' as it were."

As Snape had said little more than that she 'lacked practical experience,' Hermione wasn't sure what, precisely, his intent was – just that he evidently thought it would benefit her.

In the moment that followed, her parents' faces became very shuttered – especially her mother's - and the ensuing silence was broken by the whistle of the tea kettle. Hermione raised her wand, but Mrs. Granger shook her head, standing.

"I'll see to it, Hermione," she said as she moved to the counter, "tea is personal. It needs to be poured by hand or it simply isn't right."

The woman spoke lightly, but Hermione heard an echo of her mother's mistrust of magic in her words - and found that her eyes were suddenly prickling with unshed tears. Hermione blinked rapidly as her mother poured and served the tea, accepting her cup with a steady hand and quiet thanks.

Mr. Granger, who had always been more accepting of the wizarding world and fostering Hermione's independence, spoke first.

"Going abroad could do you good," he said, although he sounded far from enthusiastic. "You've been cooped up in that castle for too much of the last eight years, been too used to being anxious about everything. A bit of a travel, without worrying about that Voldemort bloke, might do a little to stabilize you."

It wasn't exactly a kind comment – reading between the lines, she knew that he was suggesting that she'd been fed conspiracy theories and paranoia at Hogwarts – but he was at least accepting of Snape's plans.

"I don't see what you can learn abroad that you couldn't learn safely in Britain," Mrs. Granger said at the tail end of her husband's comments. "What's the need for travel?"

"Well, part of the apprenticeship is gaining a more complete understanding of the process – like how to gather different ingredients, most of which just can't be found here. Also," she added, trying to think of things that _sounded_ useful, even if she didn't know for a fact that Snape was planning on having her benefit by it, "a lot of potion recipes are localized – there are some German potions that I couldn't get my hands on here no matter how hard I tried. It'll give me a broader view of the subject as a whole; as well as exposing me to a world larger than the UK."

Her father was nodding in an absent-minded sort of way, and Mrs. Granger seemed slightly mollified, but she still gave a suspicious sort of sniff as she contemplated her teacup.

"How long will this trip last?" Mr. Granger asked at length.

"Professor Snape didn't say," Hermione admitted, "only that it would be for quite some time."

"I'm not sure how I feel about this," her mother said, looking to her husband as if for support. Mr. Granger merely shrugged his shoulders, his face impassive.

"I don't think that there's much choice in the matter," Hermione said as delicately as she could. It was the truth – in signing the contract as a legal adult, Hermione had confirmed that Snape had, essentially, the final say in things that related to her studies. "According to the contract – "

"We didn't sign a contract," Mrs. Granger cut in, waving her hand dismissively.

"No, but I did," Hermione said, her patience wearing thin. "I'm an adult – by _anyone's_ standards, and I stand behind the choice I made." She lifted her chin in determination – and noticed that it was a posture that mirrored her mother's.

Mrs. Granger opened her mouth to make a reply, but her husband laid a hand on her arm and quieted her. "It's no good arguing the point," he said, his tone weary. "She's going to go." Mrs. Granger, looking deeply unsatisfied, shut her mouth and stood up, clearing away her tea and her husband's, then left the room.

Hermione fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth in the silence that followed her mother's exit.

"Don't think ill of her, Hermione," Mr. Granger said after a long time of silence. "Her faith in this world of yours has taken quite the hit, you know."

There wasn't any blame in his tone, but Hermione understood what her father meant.

"I'm so sorry," she said quietly, staring deep into her teacup as if hoping that the appropriate words would be etched into the porcelain, "I just wanted the both of you to be safe. And now I want to do something that you can be proud of."

"We'll always be proud," her dad said gruffly. "It's just hard to make the switch from being proud of your precocious little girl to being proud of your grown, capable young woman. You and your mother are a lot alike – so maybe think about it, see if you can really blame her for reacting the way she is."

With that said, Mr. Granger got to his feet, picked up Hermione's teacup, and put it in the sink. He re-crossed the room, planted a kiss on the top of his daughter's bushy hair, and left in silence.

Hermione continued to sit, staring at the patterns of the tablecloth and thinking about how this must be from her parent's perspective. It was a difficult exercise – the magical world was so natural to her now, it was difficult to imagine what it had felt like to be a complete outsider.

After following this line of thought long enough to find a little more peace with her mother's mistrust – the clock on the wall said half an hour had passed since her father had left the kitchen – Hermione roused herself enough to clean the dishes with a wave of her wand and retreat to her room. There, she finished and re-read her findings on the uses of Ashwinder eggs, and then turned her attention to extracurricular research, in which she buried herself until she felt exhaustion creeping over her. Writing one last note and marking her place in _Theories of the Arcane: the Underlying Fundamentals of Magic_, Hermione set aside her research for the night, crawling gratefully into bed and extinguishing her lamp.

_Just two more days until it's Sunday,_ she thought gratefully as she waited for sleep to overtake her.

* * *

A/N

**[1]** – "the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power" is quoted from _Sorcerer's Stone _during the first Potions lesson. As if I had to tell you that. J Also, looking up the exact wording for this quote took me to a page that has a composite of pretty much every appearance Snape makes EVER in the first six books, which I, of course, felt the urgent need to read. Whoops.

* I stuck with Mr. and Mrs. Granger rather than actually giving them names, because no name I've ever read in fanfics has sounded right. I think I'd go with something like Henry and Carol, but nothing ever sounds proper. You're welcome to yell at me and tell me it sounds foolish, and I'll go back in and change things.

** I'd like to note that for as long as this remains Hermione's PoV, this story is written by an unreliable narrator. Hermione's views of Snape in her school-girl years do not agree with my own. Do YOU think I should stick with just Hermione's PoV, or should I dabble in Snape?

I'm sorry that this was delayed! All of last week and weekend was incredibly busy, and this chapter needed a lot more working-over than I had expected.

Another thing - as you may have noticed, the last few chapters have moved by very slowly and in great detail of the day-to-day. Don't worry, I won't take a chapter for each day of the apprenticeship. :P It's just really important to me to get a good, vivid base established, as that makes the whole thing run smoother from here on out.

Please review!


	8. Chapter 7: The Birthday

Chapter 7: The Birthday

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

I don't own Severus Snape, Acromantulas, or any other aspect of JK Rowling's creation. I am happier this way, because, really, who wants to be the wealthiest woman in Britain? Anything that you recognize is hers, or a variation thereof. I shall try my best to give credit where credit is due in every way possible.

Side note – oh my goodness! This story in the last 20 days has gotten over 2000 individual readers, which is incredible to me! I quite nearly fell out of my chair when I checked my traffic for Tuesday (the day I posted the last chapter) and saw 700 unique visitors, and we're up to almost 100 subscriptions/favourites. Thank you ALL for going on this adventure with me! Super special thanks to everyone who has reviewed the story, as well. I'm doing my best to keep on top of reviews, and additional thanks to those of you who aren't members but review anyway. I love you guys too, even if I can't respond directly to you. It is for you wonderful people that I write.

Now – onto the story!

* * *

The next morning dawned on a very contrite Hermione. The more she reviewed the exchanges with Snape from the previous day, the more embarrassed she felt. _He was right_, she thought as she burrowed deeper under her covers, trying to milk as many moments of warmth and comfort as possible, _I couldn't wait even a week before I started questioning him. _

Hermione knew that a large part of the conflict from the afternoon before came from the independent nature that had developed lately, mainly due (she assumed) to the influence of Harry and Ron. Before befriending them in first year, she would have never _dreamed _of questioning the authority of a teacher, never even considered breaking a rule. As rules were pushed further and further in their various madcap adventures from first through sixth year, a certain recklessness had developed in the boys, matched by a stubborn independence in Hermione. The seventh year that they spent essentially living alone had cemented that feeling of head-strong autonomy. Returning to Hogwarts as eighth-year students and the Golden Trio who had saved all of wizarding Britain, they had received a great deal of license.

While she liked to think that she hadn't abused that license, Hermione saw the result of it in her interactions with Snape, and felt very much the fool.

Of course, she'd assumed that if _anyone_ would be the sort of master to allow her a great deal of freedom and self-guided study, it would be the reticent Potions Master. She had thought that the apprenticeship would be something of an extended independent study, given that he normally showed no indication to do more with his students than absolutely necessary.

To be proven wrong in this assumption was at once puzzling and strangely gratifying – or it could be, she thought, if it were under a less acerbic and unpredictable master.

"I'm very much the fool, Crookshanks," she told the lump of warmth nestled against her side. "I just don't like being told as much by Professor Snape."

* * *

Friday and Saturday passed without fuss – Hermione managed to keep her head down and her mouth shut, answering questions Snape put to her, and speaking enough to be cordial, but otherwise minding her own business. For his part, Snape seemed perfectly content to not seek out any extraneous conversation, and so the two days were spent in quiet efficiency.

Hermione was put through alternating rounds of researching the properties of ingredients, and hands-on preparation of those ingredients. She was grateful to note that she didn't handle _every_ ingredient she was made to research. On Friday, Snape took the time to demonstrate how to prepare the ingredients she was processing (asphodel and black beetles), but on Saturday, he contented himself with verbal instruction and then monitoring her efforts. Both days, he interrupted her studies to make her eat, both times with caustic comments about not wanting to neglect her well-being Hermione wondered if this was some sort of snide rebuttal for the way she'd previously questioned his decisions, or if he was simply looking after her best interests. Sticking determinedly with her plan of action, however, she simply thanked him for the meal and ate quickly before returning to her tasks.

On Saturday morning she had received an owl from Harry and Ron, instructing her to meet them at Grimmauld Place at half past twelve on the following day, and to be prepared for an afternoon in the city. In it, Harry added in a post-script that Lupin had told him about the travels that Hermione would soon be embarking on. Both men had then told Ron, who had reacted predictably poorly. Harry said that Ron was putting on a show of being unconcerned, but that he, Harry, suspected that Hermione would be getting some suspicious questions from Ron on Sunday.

This letter had reassured her – Hermione had been unsure how to tell Harry and Ron that she'd be leaving, and was glad that Remus had done it for her. While they had been separated in the last year – while she was at Hogwarts and Harry and Ron were already beginning with the Ministry – between owl post, Floo visits, and weekends and holidays, it had almost been as if they were all living in the same place still. While she was reasonably certain that their friendship was mature enough to handle separation, even a year-long separation, she didn't know how either boy (especially Ron) would react to her leaving for an extended trip at Snape's behest. From his post-script, Hermione could tell that Harry was taking the news with his usual (at least, usual since Snape's true loyalties had been uncovered) good grace, and that was comfort enough for Hermione to feel optimistic about facing Ron.

So it was that Hermione made her way to Spinner's End on Sunday morning, pleased with her success at reining in her tongue in the last two days – and the lack of conflict that had resulted. She expected a repeat performance in this shortened day, and was looking forward to the reward of a relaxing afternoon with her friends.

Snape opened the door at her knock but did not grant her entry; rather, he let her stand on the porch as he peered at her from inside.

"When am I rid of you today?" he asked, even as she opened her mouth to say hello. Although the words were biting, Hermione got the distinct impression that it was more out of habit than any real desire to be unkind, and so she took no offense.

"I was hoping to leave about noon, sir," she replied.

"Very well," said Snape, stepping back and opening the door fully so that she could enter.

Snape lead her into the study, where he sat near a pile of books and loose parchments that suggested that he had long been awake and busy this morning.

"Tell me about Ashwinder eggs," he said without preamble.

"I'm sorry, sir?" Hermione asked, taken by surprise.

"Your research into the central use of Ashwinder eggs," he elaborated. "The research you completed only days ago. Share it with me."

"I gave you my paper, sir," Hermione said hastily, wondering what he was getting at.

"I am aware of that, Miss Granger," Snape said with a clipped sigh, pursing his lip and quirking one eyebrow in apparent annoyance. "I now wish for you to summarize your research for me." He fell silent, clasping his hands in front of him and giving her an expectant look.

Breathing in deeply, Hermione forced herself to return his gaze, even as she hastily recalled her research.

"The only potions that use Ashwinder eggs as a central ingredient are potions that focus on compulsion," she began. "Although they are used in other potions as supporting ingredients – mostly healing potions for ague and joint-related ailments -, almost every potion that is built around them is used for forcing an emotional or mental state on the subject. The two best examples of this are Amortentia, a powerful love potion, and the Zwingend Draught, which is banned from production and sale in the UK and most of Europe, because it mimics the effects of the Imperius curse." Hermione paused, wondering if she could continue, but as Snape gave no indication that he intended to move or speak, she continued to elaborate on the other potions that Ashwinder eggs were used in, and how they related to the theme of compulsion.

Snape listened patiently through her explanation, his face entirely expressionless and his posture unmoving. It was rather gratifying, Hermione noted in a distant way, to have someone who seemed so content to simply listen. Harry and Ron, along with all her other classmates, would have fidgeted and been bored; her teachers would have been looking for points to interject their own comments or additional findings; but Snape merely sat and took in what she said.

When she was done, Hermione simply stopped talking and watched Snape for some sign of his approval or disapproval. She received none: his face remained blank, but he began to fire off questions; asking her specifics about the creation of different potions she'd mentioned, asking for the name of different references she'd cited, demanding clarification of an idea here, or elaboration of something she had mentioned.

He continued this rapid-fire interrogation, which she scrambled to keep up with, for more than an hour. As time stretched on, the conversation – if one could call it that – was about nothing remotely concerning Ashwinder eggs or potions about compulsion. Indeed, Hermione noted that the tangents that Snape was pursuing were nearly parallel to those that she had followed after her own research. It was an exhilarating challenge. Once Hermione had answered a question, Snape would throw out another one without pause; if she fumbled with an answer or couldn't come up with something right away, Snape would make a dismissive noise and produce another question.

As they approached the second hour of this verbal back-and-forth, it ended as abruptly as it had begun. Snape stood up, holding a parchment forward for Hermione to take. Taking it, she was surprised to see what appeared to be a list of all the questions she had just mis-answered or hadn't been able to answer at all. She looked up at Snape, fairly certain that she knew what was coming, but awaiting his instructions nonetheless. A small part of her mind was busy being impressed at this feat – she hadn't noticed him putting up any charms and he hadn't had enough time to make note of every question as they went along. _I wonder what it'd take to get him to show me that, _she wondered.

"Use whatever research is necessary, but I want those questions answered," Snape said as he strode from the room. "By the time you leave."

As he had left her with only twelve questions and two hours in which to answer them, Hermione thought this was a fair task – not to mention a pleasant break from the monotony of looking up the properties of different plant and animal bits – and set to work with a will.

Hermione neither saw nor heard anything from Snape as she worked her way through the questions, pulling out many of his books for reference and once even Apparating home to retrieve a book. She was happy for her increasing level of comfort in the study, and the concurrently growing level of familiarity with its shelves and filing.

A time or two, Hermione was tempted to look at the stack of books that Snape had been busy with when she arrived, but as he had somehow managed to leave everything face-down , she felt it was in her best interests not to pry.

She was re-shelving the last of the books she'd referenced when the Potions Master returned to the room almost precisely two hours later. As she turned to hand him the parchment, an unusual bookend caught her eye, and she paused to investigate it: a thick glass box with a silver medallion inside. It took a moment for the meaning of that artifact to sink into Hermione's mind.

"You received an Order of Merlin?" she asked, facing him and trying not to sound incredulous. "But it was never announced! I'm sure I would remember if it had been, Harry and Remus were ever so upset with –"

"The Ministry felt no need to disturb themselves with publicity," Snape cut in, his face impassive, "especially as I was yet unconscious at the time."

"Still," Hermione said reprovingly, "After you were on the mend, I'd have thought they would – Hang on," she interrupted herself, her mind switching tracks. "I thought you said that it was a bad time for you to be in Britain, but if you've been given the Order…"

Again, Snape cut her off. "The War is an uncomfortable topic for the Ministry," he said blankly. "They did very little to distinguish themselves, and would much rather let the matter drop. Furthermore, my own involvement was, as you are no doubt well-aware, received with mixed feelings. If they could have, I am sure it would have been preferable to forget me entirely, but that would have caused certain _busybodies -"_ here his eyes grew sharp as he threw a direct look her way, before returning to their customary blankness "—to rally to the cause and bring further embarrassment to the Ministry. By giving me _due credit_, they were able to all the more quickly allow the matter to fade into obscurity. That does not, however, alter the fact that I am most unpopular with the majority of Wizarding Britain."

"But after all you did…" Hermione allowed her protest to trail off at a sharp quirk of the Potions Master's eyebrow.

"I do not need accolades or acknowledgment," and though his tone was severe, she noted that his face had softened somewhat. "Nothing of my role was glorious, and I am not proud of much of what I had to do. I know what I did, and results," here he pulled a bitter face, "suggest that I did it well. That is gracious plenty."

For a single, unguarded instant, Hermione saw a depth of tiredness and emotion on the man's face that she might have, in her student days, thought impossible. Remus' words about how little Snape was able to be human echoed in her memory, and she felt a brief pang of – not pity, she decided, but something akin to admiration or gratitude – for the man. He began sorting through his parchments in silence, his face once again a stony mask. Hermione watched him quietly. Racking her brains, she was hard-pressed to remember any instance of him willingly talking about his role as a double-agent. She was bizarrely gratified, and wondered what had prompted him to lower his walls – however slightly or briefly.

After another moment's silence, Snape looked up. He held out one hand, into which Hermione placed her parchment.

"I shall expect lists of the properties of black opals when you return tomorrow," he said, as if the past conversation had never happened, "Very well, Miss Granger, be gone with you."' He flicked his fingers at her in a dismissive gesture, turning and sweeping from the room.

While he hadn't in any way acknowledged her birthday, Hermione observed as she gathered her notebooks and left, giving her only one ingredient to research made it seem like, at the very least, he was cognizant of the fact that one does not take an afternoon off only to devote it to studying. In a very Slytherin way, she could almost consider it a birthday present – the gift of time to devote to her own pursuits.

* * *

When Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place not much later, it was to find Harry, Ron, and Remus already waiting for her with a grin and a happy-birthday hug apiece. They gave her their well-wishes in a rather rushed manner.

"There's a portkey just outside of Hogsmeade leaving in under ten minutes," Lupin explained as he ushered her to the door. "Apparate to the front stoop of the Shrieking Shack, it isn't far from there."

Hermione and the boys obeyed, and set off at a trot down the lane leading away from Hogsmeade.

"The clerk said it was a boot of some sort," said Lupin as the four spread out, searching for anything that looked like it might whisk them away. "Ah! Here it is," he beckoned them over to a single tall lady's boot, holding it out for Hermione to touch.

Harry looked to his wristwatch. "Should be about a minute to go," he said, hooking one finger through the laces.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked, gripping the tongue of the boot very firmly.

"Paris," Ron said with a wide grin, laying his hand too close to her own. "Thought you might enjoy some time abroad with _real_ company."

The barb annoyed Hermione, but just as she opened her mouth to retort, she felt a jerking sensation behind her navel, and the companions were sent whirling through the darkness. Before she could get truly disoriented, there was a haze of light that settled itself into a picturesque lane lined with narrow houses.

"This is just outside of the city itself," Harry explained when Hermione looked around in obvious confusion. "The French Ministry is located somewhere under Paris, and they're touchy about how close you can get to the city by Portkey. We'll Apparate into a pretty safe alley from here."

As Harry was speaking, Ron offered Hermione his arm, apparently intending to take her Side-Along, which she took. All three wizards spun on their heels, and then Hermione was stumbling away from a wobbling Ron in a dark alley, with the bustle of big-city life thrumming around them.

Ron grabbed and steadied her, and Hermione was disconcerted to notice that he held on just a moment too long, and one thumb seemed to stroke her arm, as if of its own accord. It was over so quickly that Hermione almost doubted herself, but she took care to move between Harry and Remus regardless.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they exited the alleyway and the view opened up onto a tree-lined street, with rows of shops and cafes stretching out to either side.

"There's a little diner," Remus said, leading the way and looking around as if to get his bearings, "not far from the alley. They serve Muggles, but it's wizard-run. The owner is very much like your father, Ron – obsessed with Muggles. He's totally happy to run the restaurant and just watch them come and go, listening to their conversations."

"How d'you know about it?" Harry asked as Remus lead them to a street-crossing.

"I worked for him for a while after leaving Hogwarts," Remus explained. "He wasn't thrilled about the idea of employing a werewolf, but since wizards make up very little of his custom, it was a risk he was willing to take." He steered them into a side-street which was crowded with chairs and small tables from various establishments. "I spent the better part of three years living in a tiny little alcove above the diner – it's down at the corner there, come on – before the French Ministry took exception to my presence and I had to leave."

They walked toward a very small diner, its windows warped with age and covered with chipping paint. A weather-worn sign over the door established the diner as_Les Jjaune Blaireau – _the Yellow Badger, as Remus translated for them.

"Did this employer of yours happen to go to Hogwarts?" Harry asked with a grin.

"Not him, but his father," Remus acknowledged, opening the door and bowing Hermione in first.

Inside, the diner was much more charming than its unprepossessing exterior would suggest. The paint on the windows dimmed the bright daylight into a varicolored glow, accented by a set of antique floor-lamps that added warmth to the room. All the walls, tables, and chairs were wood varnished to a deep, shining brown, and were off-set by trimmings in a tawny yellow. The small room had an air of infinite coziness and comfort, which was only heightened by the delightfully rich scents that hung in the air. There were a few tables full of people, but the room was peacefully quiet.

"Remus!" cried an ageing man from the doorway that lead, Hermione supposed, to the kitchens. He threaded his way nimbly through the chairs and lamps between himself and the small group, enveloping Lupin in an earnest hug. "It's been too long, my friend!"

"I have been busy, Monsieur Deforge," Remus said, patting the older man on the back. "Or hadn't you heard that Britain is only recently done with a war?" he dropped his voice for this question, looking about at the other patrons.

"Of course I know about your war, boy," Monsieur Deforge said, flapping his hands at Lupin and gesturing the group into chairs, pulling one up for himself. He spoke quite loudly, apparently unconcerned about whether or not other patrons would overhear them. "But do these wars mean that you cannot take an afternoon to visit an old friend? An old friend who, may I add, is not long bound for this world?"

"You've been claiming that you're an inch away from death since you turned twenty, you old fraud," said Lupin with evident affection. "But I am here now, am I not? And where is your famed quick service?"

Deforge leaped up with a cry of mock dismay. "I am forgetting my manners of course, because I am so excited to see you, Remus! But business first, business first – " he pulled a notepad from a tattered apron and looked at them expectantly. "What would you like to eat, my friends?"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged amused looks.

"That would be easier, I think, if we had menus," Remus said in a droll tone, setting Monsieur Deforge into another display, where he apologized profusely for his lack of manners. He produced menus in short order, and then whisked away into the kitchen, promising to be back soon.

The four friends looked over the menu as they discussed their weeks. Ron, as usual, ruled the conversations with gleeful re-tellings of adventures in Auror training. Monsieur Deforge returned to take their orders. Between the two of them, Harry and Ron ordered enough food to feed a large family, while Hermione settled on the onion soup, which Lupin recommended.

As the older man walked back to the kitchen, Lupin drew the conversation away from the Aurory, asking about Ron's family.

"George is still in a bad way," Ron said glumly, his attention suddenly fixed intensely on his fork. "But Angelina Johnson has been coming by, Mum says, and she's really helping. She's not sure that he'll ever… y'know, get over it… but he might be able to get on a bit."

"And what about Percy?" Hermione asked, "I haven't heard much about him since he regained his senses just before the Final Battle."

"Well, he's still a git, really. Just because he saw how wrong the Ministry was doesn't mean he's any less ambitious or stuck-up. Doesn't come by the house much."

From there, the conversation followed some of the two eldest Weasley brothers' exploits. With the end of the war, Bill had trifled with the idea of moving back to Egypt for more curse-breaking work, but Fleur had put her foot down, and Bill had kept his desk job at Gringotts. Charlie, however, was back out studying dragons as soon as he could be – Hermione wondered if he wasn't lucky, to have that escape from all the grief and pain that had filled wizarding Britain during the war and its aftermath. _I guess I'll get to see how lucky he is, _she realized.

"Ginny's been looking into a few different Quidditch teams," Harry volunteered just as Deforge returned with their lunch. A few minutes were lost as everyone savored the food.

"Any team in particular courting her?" Lupin asked after a while, dipping a breadcrust into his soup.

"The Harpies. Aubrette Griffiths has done like her mother and left the team, they're looking for a new Chaser."

"Good for her," Hermione enthused, hoping that the Quidditch talk could be kept to a minimum. "Speaking of courting - when are you proposing?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry replied blandly, but his cheeks and ears took on a red cast.

As this successfully diverted the conversation away from who was playing for which team, and what the most recent match scores were, Hermione was content to not follow up with more questions. She couldn't blame Harry for wanting to wait – his life had hardly been normal, and if he wanted to take time to adjust and be sure of what he wanted, she supported that.

The conversation turned to Lupin's time Flourish & Blotts, which was apparently going well. "Actually, Hermione," he added after a summary of the last week's work, "I might actually be following your parents' suggestion of a special-order service for Muggle books. The owners are quite taken with the idea; they think that, given the current state of political affairs and emotions, it might do quite well."

"Dad'll be thrilled," Ron commented, sitting back from his plates with a sigh of content.

As if he had been waiting to pounce, Deforge appeared and swept away all the plates, beaming as he accepted their compliments.

"We'll take the tab, please," Harry said, reaching for his bill-fold.

"Remus will never pay here, no no," the man countered, smiling broadly. "Nor will Harry Potter, nor their friends. This day my humble little establishment has been honored."

Harry looked slightly uncomfortable at this statement, but didn't bother to argue.

"Now," said Lupin when Deforge had disappeared again, "onto your presents, Hermione!"

Harry smiled and leaned forward, pulling two tiny parcels from his pocket and tapping them with his wand, so that they grew to a more typical size and placing them in front of Hermione. "The small one is from me, and the other from Lupin," he explained, "we just thought they'd go best together."

Smiling her thanks at the two, Hermione eagerly undid the wrapping on Harry's gift. Tearing away the paper revealed a camera, its black leather grips and gleaming brass winking smugly up at her. She flashed Harry a brilliant grin before pulling open the parcel from Lupin, which revealed a photo album, several canisters of film, and a recipe for developing potion.

"These are marvelous!" she exclaimed, placing the photo album reverently on the table top and running a hand along its decorated face before picking up the camera and examining it minutely. "Thank you – thank you both!" she beamed at them.

"They are to celebrate where your apprenticeship is taking you," Lupin said with a smile. "No matter where you travel, it's sure to be something you'll want documented."

"Happy birthday," Harry said, as Hermione once again thanked them both.

"Mum sent this along," Ron added, as he held out a small, brightly wrapped box, "and this is from me," – he handed over a very small box.

The box from Mrs. Weasley turned out to be precisely that – a box. A not inside informed Hermione that it would hold as many letters or papers as she could want to put in it, and it would keep them sorted by name and date, so that she could keep track of correspondences, especially on her trip.

"That was quite sweet of her," Hermione murmured, turning her attention to Ron's small package.

Inside, Hermione was greatly surprised to find a blue satin choker, edged with lace and decorated by a pattern of tiny seed pearls. She raised her eyebrows, darting a look at Harry and Lupin.

From the thunderstruck look both men were spotting, this gift was a revelation to them as well.

"It's beautiful," Hermione said a little hesitantly. "I'm not quite sure what to say."

"It was Great Aunt Muriel's sister's," Ron said, trying to sound casual but belied by his beet red ears and neck. "Ginny looks rubbish in blue, and Fleur said the color's too bright for her. I thought it ought to stay in the family, though."

Harry's face darkened, while Lupin let out a long breath. Hermione paused, unsure if Ron had simply spoken too quickly and accidentally made that statement heavier than he had possibly intended.

"I'll be sure to wear it at Christmas, so your Mum knows it's being used well," Hermione replied diplomatically. In truth, she'd be happy to wear it more often if she had the opportunity – it _was _very beautiful – but the implication of Ron's words made her hesitant too seem to excited about it.

Ron nodded, a forced, jerky movement, determinedly not meeting anyone's eyes. Hermione was inordinately grateful for the presence of Harry and Lupin, which she was sure was all that was holding off a conversation that would have put quite the damper on what had been shaping up to be a pleasant afternoon.

"Well!" Remus said after a few moments of uneasy silence. "Time for us to be going, I think – here, we'll go into the kitchen and Disapparate from there, hmm?" He stood, ushering the others into the kitchen.

"Goodbye, Remus," Deforge cried, clasping the younger man in a hug as Lupin made his goodbyes. "You cannot return soon enough, boy. Do not be too long, for I am sure to be gone from this life soon."

"I'll keep that in mind," Lupin promised with a smile. "Minerva expressed the desire to wish you a happy birthday – and safe travels – in person, Hermione. What do you say to a trip to Hogwarts?"

"That sounds lovely," she responded enthusiastically. "I stopped taking tea with her, and it'd be wonderful to see her before I'm off."

"Back to the Three Broomsticks, then, I think," Lupin said, "and we'll use Rosmerta's Floo connection to get into Hogwarts."

Hermione was glad that they were Apparating to a place familiar to her – she didn't like the thought of another Side-Along with Ron, especially with his rather intimate gift sitting, shrunken along with the camera and photo album, in her pocket.

When they arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Remus excused themselves to go see Hagrid – where Hermione promised she'd find them when she was finished meeting with the Headmistress.

Settled in over tea in the Head's office, Hermione exchanged pleasantries with her former Head of House, and was delighted to hear that the school year was unfolding well. As Minerva talked, Hermione found her eye drawn frequently to the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably in his chair in a study, with a large window in the background looking out at a forest.

With the extra year's worth of seventh level students gone, life at the castle had resumed a semblance of normalcy, and McGonagall was happy to share that her chief concern at the moment was convincing Horace Slughorn to hold onto his position for just a year or two more.

"Isn't Slughorn a Potions Master?" Hermione enquired, addressing the itch of a curiosity that she'd uncovered in her search for a master.

"He's a journeyman," the Headmistress replied delicately. "Horace studied under Arth Eagleton, but never passed the requirements for a Mastery. He's a reliable enough brewer, if not innovative, and the journeyman status leaves him reasonably qualified to teach Potions."

"Oh," Hermione said, turning this information over. "I thought you had to study from a Master to gain Mastery," she said, puzzled.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," McGonagall said.

"Professor Snape," Hermione clarified. "I assumed he'd gotten his Mastery under Slughorn, only he couldn't have, could he, if Slughorn's not really a Master?"

"But you don't know?" McGonagall said, giving Hermione a sharp, surprised look.

"Know what?"

"Severus studied for his Mastery with Damocles," McGonagall said, frowning. "I thought you knew – I assumed that Horace, certainly, would have mentioned it at some point."

"Damocles – the inventor of _Weresbane_?" Hermione asked a little shrilly, eyes wide with surprise.

"Yes. I'd have expected Horace to be more free with mention of the fact – two of his students, one the inventor of Wolfsbane… Still, I suppose it shouldn't come as a great shock that you don't know – Damocles has always kept to himself – moved away to the Continent as soon as he saw Severus confirmed as a master and member of the Guild; and I can hardly expect Severus to have told you himself. "

"No, he never mentioned it;" Hermione said, still reeling slightly from the news.

"In all my life," McGonagall said with an air of long-suffering, "I hope to never meet as reticent and stubborn a man as your new master." She made a moue of distaste, but Hermione could hear affection buried deep within her words.

"How did you handle being near him for a year, thinking that he'd killed Dumbledore?" Hermione asked suddenly, lit by some unknown inspiration.

"I almost couldn't," the older woman responded gravely. "But I had little choice. I wish that I had trusted Dumbledore's word on him more, of course," she added with a sorrowful look. "I shudder to think of how much it pained Severus to see our trust in him so…I cannot say easily, but so quickly shredded and left in tatters."

Hermione had no response. She simply finished drinking her tea.

"And now I hear you're to go traveling for your studies, is that correct?" McGonagall asked after a moment.

"Yes," Hermione said, letting some of the enthusiasm that she was – barely – beginning to feel sneak into her tone. "Although I can't tell you where or for how long, as I don't know myself."

"That will do you good," McGonagall said with a prim nod. "It used to be something of a tradition to take off for a year of travel and studies after the end of formal education. Pity that's gone by the wayside, really."

"I'm sure it'll be very beneficial," Hermione agreed.

The conversation wound its way back to the running of Hogwarts and the performance of its students. After her third cup of tea, Hermione noted that the afternoon was coming close to becoming the evening, and excused herself. McGonagall walked her down to Hagrid's hut, where she greeted Hermione's companions briefly before returning to the castle.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione," Hagrid said, squashing Hermione in an enthusiastic hug and pressing a bag of what felt like dozens of small, flat rocks into her hand. "Made yeh some biscuits, special recipe."

"Thanks, Hagrid," Hermione said warmly – and she meant it. Even if she couldn't even think about eating Hagrid's present without her teeth aching, the thought and act touched her immensely.

"Harry here was just warnin' me that I won' be seein' much of yeh for a while," Hagrid continued, hugging her again. "So I'll wish yeh happy journeys."

"Thanks," Hermione repeated, beaming at her friend.

"We'd best be going if you want to get home in time for dinner with your family," Remus said, "Hagrid – is your home connected to the Floo?"

"Nah," Hagrid answered, "haven' much use for it now, do I? I've got everythin' I need right here at Hogwarts."

_He really should have been in Hufflepuff_, Hermione thought warmly of the man.

With a chorus of farewells, the four friends made their way up to the castle, where Hermione gave a last goodbye to McGonagall and a quick greeting to Professor Vector, who they passed on their way.

All four Flooed to Grimmauld Place, from where Hermione would Apparate to her parents'. Harry and Lupin hurried into the kitchen to start their own dinner, leaving Hermione suddenly feeling very awkward with Ron.

"I didn't mean – what I said earlier. I wasn't thinking right when I said it, but I wanted to talk to you about…about what'll happen after you get back from this trip," Ron said, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

"I've really got to go," Hermione responded evasively, "I'm sure I'll see you before I go,"

"I really want to talk about this now, Hermione," Ron responded, looking at her intently.

"And I really don't," she answered shortly, heading towards the front door.

Ron caught her arm, effectively halting her egress. "I'm sorry it came out the way it did. I didn't mean to make it sound like you didn't have a choice - you can't really think I did."

"_You_ can't really think that giving me jewelry indebts me to you, Ron," Hermione said, twisting her arm free of his grasp. "What do you want from me?"

"Oh, come off it," Ron said, his temper evidently heating up. "You said you didn't want to keep what we had up while you were at Hogwarts – fine. You wanted to work on a Potions Mastery – fine. You're going abroad for a bit of travel and study – fine. But you can't put us off forever, Hermione," he finished.

Hermione had no words with which to answer Ron. She was dimly aware of Harry coming in from the kitchen, looking as if he had been trying to give her a good-bye hug but had been brought up short by the scene.

"We're not talking about this now," Hermione said fiercely to him. _Or ever, I wish_, she added mentally. "Thanks for the birthday lunch Harry, Ron," she said, trying to end the encounter on a better note. "Thank Remus for me, will you?"

"Yeah," said Harry half-heartedly, still looking at Ron as if his friend had grown some a third head.

With that, Hermione flounced out the door. As she turned on her heel, envisioning her parents' front stoop, she could hear Harry's incredulous question: _"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"_

* * *

Although she would have liked to sit and stew over her exchange with Ron, Hermione pushed the matter to the back of her mind, intent on presenting a bright and untroubled face to her parents. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who had either made their peace with the news of Hermione's leave-taking or decided to keep silent about their complaints, were very pleasant during supper later that evening. They passed the meal theorizing on where Snape might intend to travel, which lead Hermione mentioning various locations in Europe that she'd like to visit, telling her parents about the history of different areas. They were interested to know about correlations between wizarding and Muggle history.

"I don't know much about our history in the Far East," she said, "but I know that the great pyramids are the work of wizards. Muggle historians have known for ages that pyramids – especially the Great Pyramid at Giza- were placed at very special locations, either in reference to the sun, the moon, or the land, and of course they assume that they were used for some sort of divine or arcane ceremony. But the thing is, they don't know that they were places of power for ceremonies, rather than burial sites. Wizarding history is as hazy as Muggle history, so while we know that the pyramids had been hid from Muggle view before they started appearing in Muggle writings, we don't know how long they existed. There was a vizier – Imhotep, I think his name was –"

"Imhotep?" Mr. Granger asked with a frown, "But he's quite well-known. Came out with a whole slew of innovations in building and carving."

"The very same," Hermione said with a grin. "Decided he didn't like the direction that wizards of the time were taking – seclusion from Muggles, of course – and unveiled the pyramids and a host of other fairly mundane technology so that his contemporaries couldn't horde the knowledge."

Mrs. Granger looked deeply unsettled. "What other advances do we owe wizards?"

"Not terribly many that I know of," Hermione said frankly, "as most wizarding inventions revolve around magic."

Mrs. Granger began clearing away the plates and cutlery in lieu of response.

"So why let Muggles in on the pyramids?" Mr. Granger asked, leaning back away from the table.

"Pyramids can serve as conductors for magical energy," Hermione explained, "or at least, that's what the Egyptian scientists I've read about claim. Bill – Bill Weasley, Ron's older brother, he worked as a curse-breaker in Egypt for a time – says that a lot of the vaults are living quarters, and work-rooms, like they served as a place for the Egyptian wizards to live and to practice. But one of the wizards – known to the Muggles as the Pharaoh Djoser – was going after power for power's sake. Imhotep built the so-called first pyramid at Saqqara to imprison Djoser, then unveiled the pyramids at Giza and other structures which had actually been around much longer."

"What was Djoser doing?" asked Mr. Granger as Mrs. Granger brought out small slices of sugarless chocolate cake.

"What few records we have are unclear," Hermione said, wishing that it was a slice of Mrs. Weasley's rich dark chocolate cake that sat before her, "but it was centered around the Great Pyramid – the legend is that he was trying to crack the world somehow."

Mr. Granger started visibly before reclaiming his relaxed posture. "I always think I'm used to the idea of what magic can do," he said calmly, "and then you drop a little reminder, like that, that I'm not at all prepared for the idea."

"What about some of those maniacs who did so much damage – Stalin, Hitler?" Mrs. Granger asked abruptly, pulling two bags out from under the table and setting them before Hermione.

Hermione shook her head sadly. "There are dark and evil men in every part of the world, Mum," she said.

She finished her cake quickly and pulled open the first bag to reveal three beautiful self-sharpening eagle feather quills. The next bag held a set of very stylized, embellished stationary.

"Molly Weasley owled us, suggesting we collaborate," Mr. Granger said happily as Hermione thanked her parents warmly.

"We hope it'll encourage you to write," Mrs. Granger said with a smile.

"I'll do my best," Hermione said, "provided I've any time to myself."

Her parents laughed, and the conversation meandered on for a quarter of an hour, before Mr. Granger yawned and excused himself, and the whole family retreated to their beds.

Hermione pulled a few Potions texts, as well as a quill and parchment, into bed with her, lighting a small fire in a jar she kept by her bed for that very purpose, and writing out the properties, uses, and synergies of black opals and silently blessing Snape for giving her only one ingredient to research.

It was a long time before she fell asleep that night, as echoes of her conversation with Ron, and of different recent conversations with her parents, echoed through her head.

* * *

Author's Notes

Took a break from some things to get this chapter edited and posted – hope you enjoyed it!

I tried not to make Ron too much of a jerk…

*I'm totally making up the whole pyramids and Imhotep thing. He _was _the grand vizier responsible for building the first pyramids as a memorial to Pharaoh Djoser, but never do I recall Potterverse mentioning him. Purely made up, but relatively plausible, no? I came up with the 'cracking of the world' thing based on the fact that the Great Pyramid at Giza is placed so that it equally divides all the landmasses of the planet into equal amounts, and it's squarely on intersection of one of the longest land parallels and longest land meridians, which is crazy.

I'll hopefully have another chapter up by the start of next week, but it could be delayed a bit. I'm in the middle of two of the craziest weeks of the year, personally, so everything's kind of dependent on how little sleep I can get by on. Additionally, we're coming to the end of the stuff that I already had written for this. I've got about a chapter and a half left of pre-existing things, plus what I've been working on in my spare time. If I pace it right, that'll work out pretty perfectly so I can put in my last mostly-written chapters over the next two weeks, and then burst into a fire of progress once my own life has calmed down.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please review. :)


	9. Chapter 8: History

Chapter 8: History

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

We all know who owns the Harry Potter universe, and it isn't me.

My love and thanks to all countless number of you who have read, subscribed, favorite, and reviewed this story so far. Keep it up – you are all tremendously helpful and encouraging and I couldn't do this without you.

* * *

When she returned to Spinner's End Monday morning, Snape held out his hand in an unspoken demand of her notebook and read through it, keeping her standing on the doorstep until he was satisfied. Returning the book to her, he ushered her inside and shut the door behind him.

Hermione smiled brightly and thanked him as she stepped into the parlour.

The last two days had passed without incident – as far as interactions with her professor had been concerned, at least – and she felt reassured by that. While Snape had retained much of his caustic tone, he had never gone out of his way to denigrate her; and he had, after all, allowed her the afternoon off to celebrate her birthday. As a result, Hermione was feeling much more confident in the fact that the persona of 'Professor Snape' had been left in the Hogwarts classrooms, and that as long as she didn't do anything to outright _earn _his ire and scorn, he might be – if not pleasant – at least tolerable. This decided, she wanted to get them both used to attempts at conversation on her part. Hermione didn't want to allow the next three years of her life to be dominated by a relationship in which she wasn't comfortable talking, and planned to work against that as quickly as possible. Remembering Lupin's comments about the limited amount of basic decency that Snape had been shown throughout his life, Hermione was determined to provide a positive experience.

Snape ignored her thanks, his expression as neutral as ever as he lead her down into the lab. Without saying anything, he left her at 'her' workbench, where she saw a variety of ingredients set out with empty boxes already labeled – '_Cabbage, Chinese Chomping – whole leaves'_ said the first box, with '_Caterpillars – pickled' _and '_Cockroaches – dried'_ sitting next to it. Drawing in a shuddering breath, Hermione lifted her chin resolutely. _They're just ingredients_, she told herself sternly, _you'll be working with these for the rest of your life_.

Despite this determination, she couldn't resist pulling a face as she picked up her first handful of cockroaches and began preparing the drying process. She rationalized that working backwards would allow her the 'reward' of chomping cabbages at the end, which, while tricky, were at least not disgusting.

Hermione set up the cockroach preparation in silence as Snape ducked into the store room. That process set in motion, she turned her attention to the caterpillars, figuring out how best to speed through the preparation of the three sets of ingredients. As she turned into the storeroom to fetch some vinegar, she passed Snape, who was on his way out with his arms full of jars and boxes.

"How was your afternoon?" she asked, lofting her voice as she searched the bottom shelves for the pickling solution.

"Quiet," Snape responded. While he made no move to elaborate, his tone had been without rancor of any sort, which gave Hermione heart. Besides, she figured that her last two days with him had been _quiet _enough that it couldn't have been a personal commentary.

"That's pleasant," she said evenly, trying to hold onto the thread of conversation. "I had lunch with Remus, Harry, and Ron," she added, unable to keep a trace of resentment out of her tone when she mentioned the last name.

Snape, who was lighting a fire under his cauldron and setting out the ingredients that she now recognized as making up his potion for invalids, took a moment to respond. "Wonderful," he half-grunted, his mind clearly elsewhere.

_Still_, she thought encouragingly to herself, _he _is _responding_.

"We went to a little café in Paris," she explained without prompting. "It was really quite delightful, run by an old friend of Remus'."

"That ridiculous diner?" Snape asked with a surprising tone of recognition.

"You know it?" Hermione asked, somewhat taken aback.

"Monsieur Deforge is one of the few Frenchmen to welcome foreigners," Snape replied coolly. "Seems to feel a sense of non-existent fellowship with anyone who has passed through Hogwarts' _hallowed hall_s," he drawled.

"He seemed very pleasant," Hermione said, but she got no response from Snape, who seemed to have entirely forgotten her presence in an instant, the whole of his attention focused on his cauldron.

In a blessedly short amount of time, Hermione's ingredients were prepared, and she was none the worse for wear – although she had almost lost bit of one finger to the chomping cabbages before she thought to put on the hide gloves she'd brought along. Feeling quite pleased with her success, Hermione shelved the results and watched patiently as Snape labored over his potion, of which she noticed he was making a significantly larger batch than previously, and brought it to a point where she knew it was meant to simmer for quite some time.

"I've finished with the ingredients," Hermione stated, though she knew the information was unnecessary. In all her years in his classroom, Hermione had almost never known Professor Snape to be unaware of _anything _happening in his classroom; his reputation of omniscience was legend.

Snape glanced up at her. "Timer one," he said, flicking his gaze back to the cauldron, "thirty-seven minutes. Now."

Hermione saw the clock obligingly wind itself and start ticking off the time while Snape began restoring ingredients and tools to their clean and shelved positions. "Make your lists for daisies, dill, doxy eggs, dragon blood, and dragon tissues. You have," he said with a swift look, "a little less than two hours. Make certain they are accurate."

"Yessir," Hermione responded quickly as she retreated upstairs to the study. She worked with hasty efficiency, dictating what she knew of the separate lists as she pulled out references to check for anything she had forgotten, making sure to check certain books and journals that he had repeatedly sent her back to for more archaic tidbits. The time passed very quickly as she worked, and she was in the process of triple-checking the synergies of dragon blood when Snape appeared in the doorway.

He quirked one corner of his mouth at the sight of her, wide-eyed and up to her eyebrows in her research. It was a long way from a smile, but it wasn't a sneer either, which Hermione took heart in.

"I'm done," she assured him. "I was just, uhm, re-checking myself."

"As you should be," Snape responded with an inclination of his head, his expression returned to its normal impassive state. "As your time is up." He unceremoniously pulled the notebook out of her hand and began leafing through her latest entries.

Minutes passed in silence as Hermione watched Snape carefully make his way through her lists, his face a mask of concentration.

"Do not fail to include the Eiterubrenner Salve in your list of uses for dragon tissue," he said at length, pushing the notebook back at her. [1]

"Eiterubrenner?" Hermione clarified. "But that wasn't mentioned in the _Concordance_ _on the Uses of Magickal Goods." _

"The _Concordance,_' Snape replied with a silkiness that gave lie to his irritation, "was compiled by a near-sighted bigot. He couldn't stand the thought of someone improving on an out-dated recipe, and so included only the potions of which _he _approved."

Hermione barely managed to keep herself from gaping at Snape as he turned and left the library. After he'd left, she recollected herself and dutifully added the Eiterubrenner Salve to her list, and then checked several more books for any other additions. To her further consternation, Hermione found another three potions for her list, which she thought really _ought _to have been included in the _Concordance. _ Frowning over that thought, she left the library to find him and re-check her lists. She hadn't gotten more than a few steps, however, when Snape came back up the lab stairs and headed down the hallway towards her.

"Come eat."

With this order, he headed for the kitchen, leaving Hermione to follow after. It was a little early to be eating lunch, but she didn't mind the break from her studies. Once she reached the kitchen, she found tea already set, with several delicate little sandwiches on a platter. Seating himself, Snape took one sandwich, taking a tiny bite at one corner.

Hermione sat and poured tea, which Snape accepted with a nod of his head.

"Tell me about dragon's blood," Snape said, initiating the conversation as Hermione helped herself to three of the sandwich wedges.

Hermione dutifully listed off its properties and synergies, making a brief note about some of the minor differences between species.

"And what, in your mind," prompted the man, "is the most…interesting…use of dragon's blood?"

"I would say its use in potions that promote understanding and comprehension of languages," Hermione responded after a moment's thought.

"And what do you know of Muggle stories that incorporate that idea?"

Hermione cocked her head as she thought, nibbling absently on one sandwich.

"I've read a few stories – I was mad about mythology and folklore even before I knew that most of it was _real_," she said with a grin, " – that mention it. There was one where a dragon made a boon of a drop of her blood, and the girl who received it could understand languages from then on out. But that was really recent – there's a hero in different Norse, German, and Scandanavian stories who is told variously to have drunk dragon's blood, eaten a dragon's heart, or bathed in the blood of a dragon, and it always ended in some sort of ability to understand languages or the gift of prophecy."

Snape nodded.

"So was that common knowledge at some point?" Hermione asked.

"Magic-users have always kept themselves separate," he answered, "but it used to be to a much lesser degree. To begin with, when the population of the world was lower, there was less of an inequality between the numbers of the magical and non-magical. It was more accepted as a result, and certain facets of wizarding knowledge were wide-spread."

"What made the difference, what called for all the secrecy?" she asked, glad that Snape was talking so freely.

"The steady growth of the non-magical population," Snape responded, setting aside his half-eaten sandwich and picking up his tea. "As well as the revolution of thinking and technology – the Renaissance."

"Hadn't technology been advanced at other points before the Renaissance?" Hermione responded, thinking of her conversation with her parents from the night before.

"Never to this degree. Civilizations wear down, and often leave a vacuum in their wake. In that vacuum, the magical community often reared its head again, before the next great advancement," Snape answered readily.

"But not this time," Hermione affirmed, to which Snape again nodded. The conversation turned back to dragon's blood and its properties, and before they stood up from lunch, Snape had thoroughly rooted through all of Hermione's knowledge on the subject. When that topic was exhausted, he gave her a sharp look, and asked if she'd updated her lists.

"Oh, yes," she assured him hastily. "I've included Eiterubrunner, and added a few others that I found."

Snape gave an affirming nod.

"What I don't understand," she trailed on, "is how – aside from you telling me – I was supposed to know that. I've never seen any mention of the _Concordance'_s shortcomings."

"Is not the whole point of an apprenticeship," Snape asked with a bored look, "to enable you to learn what you cannot glean from books?"

"Well, yes, I suppose it is," she agreed, nodding thoughtfully, "but I just…"

"You have long been over-reliant on books, Miss Granger. I have been trying for years to tell you to trust them with a little less blind devotion. Books are as fallible as those who write them – _very_ fallible, in other words."

Hermione had no answer to that, but simply took the reprimand in stride. Snape set her to more potions ingredients and then retreated to the lab, leaving her with a long list of materials to study and research before returning the next day.

* * *

As the week wore on, Hermione deliberately avoided visiting either Lupin or Harry, hoping to delay the confrontation with Ron that she knew was coming. Instead, she buried herself in her work for Snape, and extra-curricular studies that answered questions raised in the progress of working on his assignments.

Snape made no mention of their impending departure – not even to give her a more exact timeframe of when to expect their trip to begin - but on Thursday, Hermione noticed that he stepped up the pace of her assignments, setting her ten materials to research that afternoon along with two directives that she look into the relationships between distinct ingredients. Each of these research assignments was followed by a thorough verbal interrogation, in which Snape always acted as if he hadn't read any of the research that she so painstakingly prepared – often questioning her while she was in the lab working.

It was challenging, it was frustrating, and Hermione _loved _it.

The frenzy of studying was new enough to have all the excitement that a new school year held for her, balanced with the feeling of invigoration – if a rather frenzied invigoration – that she associated with exams. It was so delightful to be purely devoted to her studies, to not worry about trouble in the hallways, Quidditch, or attempts on Harry's life. Snape brought her up to a level, intellectually, that she'd never before been consistently engaged on. It was thrilling.

* * *

In this way, time passed quickly – and it was the next Monday, with only a matter of weeks or days left until the journey, before she knew it. That morning, she received a note from Harry, saying that he hoped Snape hadn't locked her in the library, and that she should come by to the flat for one of the last dinners before she was off on her adventures.

The knowledge that this would inevitably bring a meeting with Ron hung like a thunderhead over Hermione's day, blocking out the peace and concentration that she'd begun to enjoy in Spinner's End.

* * *

Ron was suspiciously alone when she went to visit the London flat that night. Given the tell-tale ruddiness of his neck and ears, and the forced-casual air with which he greeted her arrival, Hermione was immediately suspicious.

"Harry had to run out," Ron said in a slightly strangled voice, just barely missing making eye contact.

"Did he," Hermione said, torn between wanting Harry around for support and not wanting anyone to witness the exchange that was sure to arise soon.

"I thought we could use that as a chance to talk a bit," Ron continued, apparently oblivious to her skepticism.

"Want to try to pressure me into something more?" Hermione asked archly.

"I wasn't _pressuring _you," Ron returned, his temper jumping to the surface in spite of his previous attempts at a calm demeanor.

"Then what would _you_ call giving me jewelry so that it 'stayed in the family'?" asked Hermione as neutrally as she could.

Ron side-stepped the question. "It's not like you ever made any signs that you didn't want it," he stated as he gestured vaguely, stretching his arms out as if to show how much 'it,' whatever 'it' was, entailed.

"Aside from doing absolutely nothing to pursue a relationship?" Hermione asked, "Yeah, I can see how that seemed like such an invitation."

"I thought you just wanted time to figure out what you wanted to do."

"Then I guess I should have been more clear that marrying you wasn't going to be on that list," she retorted.

"I guess you should have," Ron answered hotly, "so I could've found some witch who had feelings like a real human being."

He blinked at the vehemence of his own statement, but put on a mulish expression which suggested that he didn't want to admit his mistake.

"If that's what you really think," Hermione said very quietly, "then I think we would both have been doing ourselves a disservice to go ahead in a relationship."

"I – I didn't mean that," Ron said half-heartedly.

"Then what _did _you mean, Ronald?" Hermione asked in the same quiet voice.

"It's just that – I don't understand, Hermione. I thought that we were for sure. I mean, there was Krum in fourth year, but there was never really anyone else for you. And there was _never_ anyone else for me." Hermione didn't see fit to remind him of the months that he'd spent entangled with Lavender, so let him continue: "And then Harry had Ginny, and at the Final Battle… I just figured it wasn't something we really had to talk about anymore."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, and she felt it, "but this isn't the kind of thing that you can just _not talk about_."

"I guess I see that now," Ron said, although Hermione thought his words sounded suspiciously hollow, "and how that might upset you. So we can talk about it, when you get back we can –"

"Didn't you just hear me, Ron?" Hermione asked, her tone sharpened by her disbelief at the complete turn-about Ron had just made from trying to be understanding to going right back to making assumptions. "I don't _want _that relationship with you."

"But why not, Hermione?" Ron asked, a pleading note in his voice, "All these years we've been friends, why not?"

"Because we're _just _friends," Hermione said patiently. "I thought we might have been something more at one point, too, but honestly – we can't go a week without being at each other's throats about something or another anyway, do you really think that would work out?"

"We always come through it okay, don't we?" Ron mumbled, but Hermione saw that it was a token effort. She reached a hand to take his, but checked herself and settled with patting his shoulder gingerly.

"We have – as friends. Nothing ever has to change that," she said, as warmly as she could. "Now, let's get dinner."

* * *

Alone in her bed that night after a pleasant dinner – in which a very quiet Ron had made a valiant effort at good cheer – Hermione reflected on their meeting.

She was relieved to have gotten the conversation over with, but that didn't mean she had enjoyed it. For all that she wasn't in love with Ron, Hermione _did_ love him – as a friend and a very courageous, loyal young man. Having to let him down – and seeing his response, hearing his angry words – _hurt_.

Crookshanks' weight was a welcome presence as she lay in the dark, thinking over Ron's behavior and blinking back the tears in her eyes. As much as his words had hurt her, Hermione knew that Ron had also been wounded in the conversation, and regretted the necessity of it. He was her friend, after all, which meant that she ached to see him in pain or confused. _It's necessary_, she told herself. _Just think how miserable you'd both have been if you went ahead with this_.

Trying to bolster herself with this thought, Hermione drifted into slumber.

* * *

When Hermione next went down to the laboratory, she found her workbench set with a single, filled potion vial and a loose parchment. It took a moment for her to place the objects – the phial held the same mysterious potion that Snape had had her brew just before giving her the apprenticeship. Upon closer inspection, the parchment proved to be the recipe for that potion.

Snape came out of the study, another parchment in hand. He jerked his chin in the direction of the phial.

"What is it?" he asked, moving to one of the tall stools against the far wall and seating himself.

"I still don't know, sir," Hermione admitted – though it wasn't _really _for lack of trying. She hadn't had loads of spare time, but what little attention she _had _devoted to the search had proven fruitless.

"Was it properly brewed?" Snape asked after a moment.

"I think so," she answered, thinking back to her concerns about the colour of the potion.

"'I think' does no one any good, Miss Granger. Take a stand."

"Yes," Hermione amended quietly.

"Does it match, in every way, the expected result?" he asked after another pause.

Hermione toyed briefly with her answer. The colour was really only off by a shade…

"No," she said heavily. "The colour isn't right."

Snape looked at her pensively, his lips pursed as his fingers worried at the parchment in his hand.

"What should you have done to make it properly?" he demanded, after yet another lapse of time.

"I followed the steps exactly!" Hermione objected, lifting her chin and straightening her back. Had she any hackles, she was sure they would have been raised at this suggestion that she was anything less than thorough in her attention to the recipe.

"That does not answer the question," Snape said curtly.

"Then I'm not sure what answer you're looking for, sir."

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments, as Hermione racked her brains for what it is that could have gone wrong. Her mind flitted to the time that Snape had made mention of cross-contamination from poorly washed cauldrons ruining a potion – but no, that couldn't be right. She had been using Snape's own equipment, that he himself had washed. Surely he wouldn't have sabotaged her efforts, would he? A sneaky voice in Hermione's mind told her that that would be an excellent way to teach her to double-check her equipment, but Hermione dismissed it. She didn't think that even Snape would deliberately set out to make her fail. While he might not be exactly a cheerleader to those under his tutelage, she'd never got the impression that he _actually _enjoyed seeing students fail. After all, a botched potion could be rather catastrophic, depending on the magnitude of the error. It was in Snape's own best interests to see to the success of his students – however little he may have seemed to.

Eventually, Snape walked over to her workbench, placed the sheaf on the table next to the potion recipe, and returned to his perch. Hermione leaned forward and saw that _this _parchment was nearly identical to the first. It listed the same ingredients and went through almost the same steps. The only difference was whether a single ingredient – dried aloe sap – was added _before _or_ after _turning up the flames.

Hermione looked up at her professor in confusion. He was watching her with hawk-like intensity, but made no move to speak.

"Sir?" she said at last. "I don't think I understand…" she trailed off, a little intimidated by the way he was watching her.

"Which recipe is correct, Miss Granger?" he asked of her. She was pleased to hear that his voice was softer than the stare he was directing her way, but that did little to ease her uncertainty.

She looked back down at the two parchments before her, looking for some other disparity that would make the answer evident. There was none.

"I don't know," she said at length. "I've never seen either of these outside of this lab, so I couldn't say."

Snape gave her a quelling look. "Seven years of studying Potions theory, and that's the best you can do?" he scoffed, his voice rife with disdain.

"The second one," she responded.

"Why?" Snape shot back immediately.

"Because the first one obviously isn't right!" She said, forgetting her respectfulness in her frustration.

"That's hardly a good enough reason." Snape's speech was as precisely controlled as ever, but she could hear the tinge of heat to his words.

"Well, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to think for yourself, girl, _think_," he said with growing irritation. This statement was abruptly followed by a question. "What was the greatest accomplishment you achieved, singly, in your first year?"

It took a moment for Hermione to answer, so taken aback was she by his unexpected question.

"Solving your riddle, I suppose," she said. It had been a moment of great pressure, it had aided Harry in his rush to stop Voldemort's sudden return, and it had been something that many adult wizards would not have been able to achieve.

"You were able, then," he said with great deliberation, "to take a set of facts from a single location and draw the proper conclusion."

Had he not sounded so annoyed, Hermione could _almost_ have taken that as a sort of compliment.

"What you _need_ to be able to do is to take facts from several sources and still draw the correct conclusion." He watched her as he let those words sink in, his expression fierce. "Do not blindly accept what is laid out before you. As the _Concordance's_ oversight concerning Eiterubrunner should have shown you, the books to which you so desperately cling are _far _from faultless. Test _everything_ against your own knowledge, and be ever watchful of opportunities to increase that precious stock."

It was an impressive speech, and Hermione – much as she would like to rail against the aspersions cast on her precious textbooks – found herself stirring at his words. He thought she could do this. He would not have gone to such trouble in the last few months if he didn't really think that she was capable of what he expected. It was a greatly encouraging thought.

"_Now,_" he said, standing and placing his hands on his own desk, "_why _is the second set of instructions correct?"

Hermione took a deep breath as she re-read the recipe in question. "The aloe _has _to be added after the heat has been increased," she said slowly, "so that the solution's in a proper state to bind with it straight away. Otherwise," and here she looked up in triumph, sure of her answer, "all its properties are expended without really enhancing the potion."

Snape stared at her for a long moment, as the glow of pride flushed through her and dissipated.

"There may yet be hope," he said at length.

* * *

The rounds of ingredient research and preparation continued. While she was still focused on the positive side of the work – with Snape unexpectedly quizzing her on the properties of different ingredients, she felt more sure of her at-command knowledge than ever before, and she gained more confidence in her movements with every over-large batch of ingredients – Hermione was pleased to note that the alphabet was quickly skipping by, which she hoped meant that she would shortly be coming to the end of this monotonous phase. _Of course, _she thought grimly as she painstakingly plucked, combed, and stored Jobberknoll feathers, _he might just go through the alphabet again and have me prepare everything that we skipped this time. _

So it was that, in the haze of research and lab time, the last days before her departure passed quickly, and suddenly it was Thursday evening two weeks later, and Snape was blocking her departure, having apparently decided that _now _was the appropriate time to discuss their leave-taking. _Thank Merlin that packing's easier for magical folk_, Hermione thought, trying not to be annoyed with her reticent professor.

"Prepare to be gone for an extended period of time," Snape instructed her tonelessly, his gaze resting on his bookshelves, "and pack accordingly. Any books which you do not take with you should be brought and shelved here. I expect you to avoid _frivolities_, as this is hardly a sight-seeing tour. Noon tomorrow." He moved from where he was blocking the door and gestured for her to make herself scarce. "Good evening," he said as he shut the door behind her.

It was typically short, but Hermione took a moment to remind herself that Snape's clipped manner of speech wasn't necessarily indicative of his actual opinion of her, and headed home to pack.

She hadn't spared a great deal of thought for the trip ahead. She still didn't know where they were bound, _still _didn't know how long a trip it would be, and her closed-mouth professor had given her very little idea of what to expect. Given that, there had really been no point dwelling on the departure. It was easy enough, given the routine that days at Spinner's End had settled into, to imagine that life –wherever they were headed – would differ but a little from life as it was arranged now. Hermione took comfort in that, and did her best to not worry at questions that only time would answer. As she packed, though, she found herself becoming more and more excited at the prospect. She had never felt herself to be much of an adventure-hound, but she decided that a change of scenery could certainly do her good. The fact the scenery change would benefit her studies only heightened her sudden enjoyment of the notion. _"That will do you good,"_ she heard Headmistress McGonagall's words echoing in her head, and found that she quite heartily agreed.

* * *

A/N

[1] – Eiterubrunner is, so far as I am aware, the creation of ladyofthemasque. I came across it in her story In Annulo, which was part of one of the rounds of SS/HG awards from quite some time ago. The story itself is a little more outlandish than I normally subscribe to, but it has a few truly beautiful elements. If you're interested, you'll find it over at the Petulant Poetess archives.

Sorry this chapter was a bit shorter. It weighs in at about 4700, whereas most of the others are ranging between six and eight thousand. But this seemed like the most logical pausing point.

Sorry if the chapter title doesn't make sense. I'm not particularly inspired in my titling, I've noticed. Anyway, this chapter deals with literal history, as well as Hermione's history with Ron, her history of reliance on books, and such. So that's that, in case you were wondering.

Unfortunately, I'd advise you to not expect another update until next weekend. I'll be typing like mad in every spare moment I get this week, but won't likely be able to devote my time to the chapter until this hell-week is over.

And lastly… my dear reviewers, you are the light of my life. It is a thrill like no other to know that you're out there, reading this and even sometimes liking it. To everyone who has taken the time out to write a note of encouragement or critique to me, you have my eternal gratitude. To anyone who hasn't done so...doesn't this just make you wish that you had? You know it does. Seriously.


	10. Chapter 9: The Second First Day

Chapter 9: The (Second) First Day

Author's Note & Anti-Litigation Charm

I do not own the Ministry of Magic, nor the concept of portkeys, nor any other part of the Potterverse. JK Rowling does, and it's only by her grace that I can borrow her creation and make my own stories with it. She's a classy lady.

Early update! Yesterday was my birthday, so I took some 'me time' to edit this and get it up. Expect a new update by early next week, I hope.  
You guys rock! Special thanks to everyone who's added this to their favorites or their alert list, and an extra heap of internet karma to those of you who have left reviews. You guys are my heroes, really.

After this coming week, I'd like to have an established day to do posting, so that if I happen to only post once a week, you at least know when to expect it. Does anyone have suggestions for what a good day might be?

And now – on with the story! Today's the big move-out day.

* * *

The next morning was surprisingly normal. Hermione knew, intellectually, that she was a young woman, past her teenage years and past her normal schooling experience, but she still always somehow expected teary good-byes from a frenetic mother when she went off on her scholastic adventures. To have her mother make coffee and breakfast and then leave with little more than normal morning conversation and a hug and a kiss good-bye was, therefore, peculiar. The strangeness of the normalcy did not negate their comfort – Hermione was glad for anything that _didn't _remind her that she was about to embark on a journey of indeterminate duration and destination with one of the most feared and hated of all Hogwarts professors.

Two owls arrived, one with a note from Harry and Ron, and another from Lupin – it had a little squiggle near the bottom which Remus' post-script informed her was Teddy's attempt at a signature. With a fond smile, Hermione filed both letters into the note-box from Mrs. Weasley, marking the first letters of her journey. Since she was both pressed for time and at a bit of a loss for anything to write in response, she decided that it would be better to respond to the letters at the end of the day, when she had new experiences to draw on.

All too soon – or not soon enough, she was so torn between anxiety over an extended period of time in the sole company of her grumpy Professor and excitement at the idea of having her days filled with learning and adventure that she wasn't sure which emotion was dominant – she had no more excuses to stay in her parents' home. She'd seen them off to work, checked and re-checked her packing, pet Crookshanks furiously while explaining that she hardly thought that Professor Snape would approve of his company, and shrunk the box containing her spare books so that it fit easily in her pocket. It was not quite ten in the morning, and Hermione was at a loss for what to do. Lupin, Harry, and Ron would all be busy, which left her with only Crookshanks for company.

The half-kneazle apparently understood that he was about to be abandoned: he clung like a shadow to Hermione, as if convinced that he might follow her wherever she tried to run off to.

To pass the time, Hermione picked up one of her childhood fantasy books and began leafing through it, thinking fondly of the times when she had yearned for magic to be real, and the delight that had come with the realization that it _was_, and that she could take part in that wondrous world.

Lost as she was in pages and memories, the time passed quickly. Putting aside the book with a smile, Hermione checked her pockets to be sure she had all her packing, and Apparated to Spinner's End

"Good morning, Professor Snape," Hermione said brightly as the man opened the door moments later.

"You brought your spare books?" Snape prompted in way of reply.

"Yes," Hermione said as she reached into her pocket for the box that contained the books in question, pulling it out and displaying it.

Snape nodded and opened the door.

"Where would you like them shelved?" Hermione asked, even as she noticed an empty shelf on the parlour wall, to which Snape promptly pointed. With a nod, Hermione walked over. As she began un-shrinking and shelving her books, she noticed that the two couches, the chair, and the small coffee table all had been neatly draped in dustcloths.

"You are prepared?" Snape asked peremptorily as she finished with the last of her books.

"Yes," Hermione responded.

Snape gave an idyll wave of his hand at this statement, and the white sheets lifted up, unfolded themselves, and settled gracefully over their furniture. With a gesture for Hermione to precede him, Snape opened the front door, dousing the lights and shutting the curtains with a flick of his fingers. He followed Hermione outside, producing a key and locking the front door and mumbling foreign words that she couldn't recognize as he did so. Stepping off the stoop, Snape pulled out his wand. Hermione followed him, and was somewhat shocked to see the house disappear as she did so – all that was left was a vacant lot with a few tattered remnants of a house. As she had always followed Lupin's lead and Apparated directly onto Snape's doorstep, Hermione had no idea if this was a customary precaution or done only because they were taking leave of the house.

Snape was making complex passes with his wand, his expression intent but his lips unmoving. Hermione could feel the air crackle with magic, and then the sensation was gone – the vacant lot stood precisely as it had, and Hermione was sure that very few people (now that the two most powerful wizards in Britain had died) would be able to reveal the concealed house. She had recognized a few of the wand motions from Professor Babbling's books on the practical application of ancient runes, most of which had to do with warding. Hermione looked at her Potions Master with new respect.

"You called wand-waving _foolish_," she said in an almost accusatory tone.

"Of course I didn't," Snape responded with a cross look.

"You did," Hermione said emphatically. "On the first day of Potions, you talked about 'foolish wand-waving and silly incantations.'"

"And I said you would encounter neither in my class, did I not?" the man snapped. "Turning a gerbil into a teacup is foolish. Making a goblet tap-dance is silly. I have time for none such _tomfoolery_," he sneered, and then his expression was blank again. "Defensive warding, however, is preeminently practical. Now, Apparate to the Ministry of Magic."

His sudden changes of topic, while habitual, never failed to leave Hermione feeling wrong-footed.

"The Ministry?" she repeated.

Snape gave her an icy look. "_Now," _he said without bothering to repeat her destination.

Nodding quickly, Hermione spun on the spot, squeezing through the bizarre sensation of traveling through space and catching herself as the Apparition foyer of the Ministry settled around her.

She turned around, expecting Snape to appear at her side. He did not. Stepping to one side so as not to impede anyone else, Hermione took a seat on the sole purple plush chair available.

A minute passed, and then another, as Hermione tried not to stare rudely at the source of every _pop _that signaled another arrival.

Just as Hermione was preparing to return to Spinner's End, torn between irritation with the reticent man and confusion over why he would give her incomplete directions, Snape appeared, spinning smoothly out of nothing and striding toward the exit without losing a beat.

"Come," he said without looking back at her, offering no explanation for his absence.

"Where were you?" Hermione asked as she followed after him.

"Spinner's End," he said shortly as they crossed the foyer, which was newly decorated with a host of golden statues (two of which looked suspiciously like Harry and Dumbledore) of wizards, witches, and other magical beings.

"Doing what? You already closed up…"

"Warding," he answered irritably.

"But you'd already-" Hermione began, but Snape cut her off.

"_Miss Granger, _it is a highly unadvisable practice to allow anyone to see the entirety of one's defensive spelling," he said with a sigh of long-suffering as they entered one of the lifts and began descending. "I shudder to think that the fate of the wizarding world rested on your ability to conceal Potter."

"I did as best I could, but there's only so much I was able to teach myself," Hermione responded with as much dignity as she could muster, a little miffed that he would be so dismissive of her efforts.

"And that is why you are with me," Snape said curtly, his words almost lost in the cool female voice that announced that they had reached the Portkey Station. He swept out of the lift, Hermione hurrying after.

* * *

The Portkey Station was a mostly vacant chamber, done in the Minsitry's usual grandiose style of marble and gold, with small pedestals upon which small golden globes rested.

"Are those the portkeys?" Hermione asked as they entered, peering speculatively at one of the globes as Snape strode towards a small desk, manned by a bored-looking wizard, at the opposite end of the room. "I thought they were supposed to be unremarkable objects."

"These are spelled to return to the Ministry as soon as they've transported their passengers," the desk wizard answered, causing Hermione to jump as she had not expected him to have heard her.

"That's clever," Hermione said with a smile. "Do they just have another porting spell put on them for a time immediately following their original departure? Can those spells stack-?"

The wizard laughed, waving a hand. "I can't tell you our secrets," he said congenially, but he gave her a wink and added "although you're very keen to guess as much."

"If you're _quite _finished," Snape said with a quelling look, "we have need of a Portkey to Londonderry."

The Minsitry worker's smile didn't fade, but his expression froze as his gazed met Snape's, and then his eyes flitted down to Snape's neck, where the tip of an angry red scar was still just barely visible over the top of the Potions Master's high, tight collar. He turned his gaze to Hermione for an instant, apparently just realizing whose company he was in. To his credit, and Hermione's great relief, he said nothing.

"Londonderry, Ireland?" the man asked casually, picking up his wand and scooting back from his desk. "Let's use this first key, if you please," and he lead them over to the nearest pedestal.

"_Portus," _he said with a twiddle of his wand, and then repeated the same motion without saying anything, which Hermione supposed all but confirmed her estimation of the way the portkeys returned to their location at the ministry.

"Thirty seconds, then," the man said amiably. "You'll come out about Bishop's Street Gate. Make sure you've got a good hold, and don't be afraid to send us an owl if you need another portkey for your return." He gave a jaunty wave as Hermione and Snape both touched opposite sides of the globe, Snape looking superbly bored with the goings-on.

"Thank you," Hermione managed, just as the jerking sensation behind her navel stared, and she felt herself being pulled backward out of the Ministry. After a brief moment of being simultaneously pulled in every which way and being horribly compressed on all sides, she landed gracelessly in a shadowed archway . Next to her, Snape reached out and steadied himself against the grey stone wall that surrounded them. Not far away, in a haze of color and noise, cars streaked past them.

"You'd think someone would notice people appearing here," Hermione said, shocked that the Ministry would dump them in such a populous area.

"A great deal goes unobserved in shadows," Snape said, stepping out of the alcove they had landed in as the golden globe that he had let drop vanished without a sound. "This particular location is often used by the Ministry, I am quite sure they have added a certain level of concealment to the place."

As Snape stepped into the sunlight, Hermione had the irrational urge to tell him he was about to attract attention in his teaching robes. Even as she opened her mouth, however, she realized that, while he was in his customary black trousers and frock coat, with his typical collar and tight sleeves, he was – for the first time in her knowledge – _not _in his teaching robes. She ought to have noticed sooner, but it was such an automatic thing for Snape to be wearing his teaching robes – even in his own house – that Hermione barely spared a glance for his attire normally. As she looked on for a moment in shock, Snape proceeded quickly into the pedestrian stream, and Hermione belatedly hurried to catch up.

Snape walked, never looking to either side, purposely toward the eastern edge of town, Hermione following him half-heartedly, craning her neck to take in the new views. At last the crowded hub of the city was behind them, giving way to more docile streets with quiet homes. These, too, Snape ignored, walking decidedly onward until the sights of the town were behind them.

For the hour and a half of their brisk walk through the town, Snape had been silent, ignoring Hermione as if she was one of the many strangers he had passed by. It was a cool day, and between the weather and the new scenery, Hermione hadn't minded the walk – had, in fact, enjoyed; but she was beginning to hope that he would soon say that they had either reached their destination (wherever that might be), or were at least taking a break.

As they approached a small copse of trees, nestled between several rolling hills, Snape stopped abruptly. He looked about, taking in the heavy clouds, the gentle trees, and the way the earth seemed to gently slope down to them on all sides, and nodded to himself.

"This will serve at present," he told Hermione, and pulled a small bundle from one of his pockets, laying it on the ground, stepping back, and returning it to what Hermione assumed was its normal size. The makings of a small canvas tent lay in a pile on the ground, and with a wave of his wand, Snape began assembling them. Tent poles sprang up, and the tent itself obligingly wriggled its way onto them, until in very short order, a rather unbecoming tent stood before them.

The tent looked _shabby_ – there was no other word for it. Although Hermione reminded herself firmly of the roominess of the Weasley's tent, she could not fight off a certain trepidation as Snape beckoned her in, one eyebrow quirked at her obvious hesitation. Another feeling she couldn't dismiss was one of uncertain familiarity with the tent. Something about it nagged at the corners of her memory, but Hermione, being unable to place it, did her best to ignore the idea as she followed his promptings.

All doubts that Hermione might have had were banished the moment she stepped inside, however. Immediately inside the ten t was a cloakroom of sorts, bare except for a coat-hanger and a thick mat that lay just inside the entry. The exterior walls were made of tent fabric, but the interior wall was wood paneling – dark wood, and stained with age, but serviceable. There was no luxury about it, but it promised at a size and comfort level that had been beyond Hermione's hopes.

"I've never seen a tent with actual walls on the interior," she said, belatedly recalling that she'd only ever seen _one _tent in the magical world.

"The previous owner was very liberal in his alterations," Snape said in a curiously subdued voice. "Continue on."

Hermione did so, stepping from the little entryway into a long, narrow hall made of the same dark paneling and lit by torches very reminiscent of those in the Hogwarts dungeons. There were several doors leading off of the hallway. Peeking into the first door at her left, Hermione saw a small parlour, which held two small bookshelves, two chairs, a careworn couch, and two little tables. The three interior walls were in the same dark paneling, as was the floor. There were no windows, but the slanting exterior wall glowed with the light of the sun through the canvas, lending a bright and cozy quality to the room. Hermione backed out and poked her head in the room almost directly across the hall from the parlour, and saw a kitchen. Against the tent wall was a long, narrow table with two chairs, and the other three walls were filled with cabinets and counters. Hermione was mildly surprised to see what looked like a fully-plumbed sink, as well as an antiquated stove.

"This is much more…civilized than I'd imagined," she said appreciatively.

"The ingenuity of wizards knows no bounds," Snape said neutrally. "Especially when they wish to keep their animal comforts about them."

Snape shifted impatiently as Hermione continued to inspect the kitchen, and Hermione obligingly moved on. Continuing down the hall, Hermione came across another door to her left, which revealed a study, its wood walls already lined with books that she recognized from the study at Spinner's End. In fact, aside from the tent wall, it looked almost precisely as if Snape had merely moved his furnishings from the study into this room. Already familiar with it, Hermione turned her attention to the room across the hall from it, which appeared to be a bedroom – since she was allowed to enter it, Hermione could only assume it was to be her own. Although small, it was serviceable, with a standing wardrobe, a small four-poster, and a desk. One of the interior walls held a door, which opened to reveal a bathroom. It was extremely narrow, but ran the length of Hermione's bedroom, with a toilet at one end, a counter with cupboards, a sink, and a mirror in the middle, and a small shower stall with an old standing bathtub at the far end. These rooms, too, were being illuminated by the ambient light available through the canvas exterior, which made the rooms that might otherwise look threadbare quite beautiful. She exited her room to find Snape waiting in the hall.

With a gesture towards the door that stood at the very end of the hall a few feet away and opposite her own room, Snape said, "The other rooms are open to you at all times, but as _that_ door leads to my quarters, you are not to enter."

"Of course," Hermione said agreeably, "but where will we be brewing – surely you can't intend to use the kitchen."

Snape quirked his lips in an expression of disdain, pointing to the door opposite _his_ room.

"Do not be purposely obtuse, Miss Granger. That leads to the lab."

Hermione opened the door, revealing a staircase. _Ingenious indeed, _she thought with a mixture of surprise and amusement. _A tent – with a basement. _Shaking her head in exasperated admiration for the magic at work in this humble little tent, Hermione investigated, followed by Snape.

A single torch lit the cramped staircase, and allowed Hermione to see into the lab. It wasn't until she saw the doubly-familiar flagstones – that marked both the Hogwarts and lab and Snape's own – that it hit her. Realizing what it was that had caused her _déjà vu _upon seeing the tent originally, she spun to face Snape, locking eyes with the Potions Master.

"This tent. It's the same as in Headmaster Dumbledore's portrait!" she said, not even bothering to mask the idea as a question. If her professor truly wanted her to make leaps of logic, then he surely wouldn't begrudge her this one.

Snape – whose face had betrayed only the most fleeting sign of his surprise when she whirled around – raised one eyebrow at the decisiveness of her tone.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Granger?" he said in a somewhat dangerous voice, but Hermione caught a gleam in his eye. She was _right_.

"I thought this tent looked familiar," she explained more clearly, "and its because I saw it every time I took tea with Professor McGonagall. _This tent_ is sitting in front of the forest outside of the window in Professor Dumbledore's portrait!" she nodded with satisfaction at the correctness she felt.

"It may be," he responded blankly, his eyes once again unreadable.

"But why do you have it?" she pressed.

The professor sighed. It was the same clipped sound of resignation that he used to give before answering a question that he felt was unworthy of his attention. Still, at least he _did_seem to be willing to give an answer, Hermione supposed.

"It was in my private office," he said, the words careful, precise, and giving nothing away, "on the last night before I became the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

Snapes eyes bore into her own, their inky depths capturing her. _The last night before.. _

"_Oh_," she exclaimed softly, her knees going weak. The night that Harry had disappeared to chase after the locket Horcrux. The night that Snape had _killed Dumbledore. _

"He seemed to think," Snape said in the same flat tones, though she could almost feel the undercurrent of bitterness in his manner, "that I might have need of it, were I …lucky –" he said it as if _luck_ were a foul word –" enough to survive to the end of the war. That I might need a reliable hide-away, were I afforded the luxury of fleeing."

"He _expected_ no one to believe you," Hermione said softly, a strange burning gathering behind her eyes. "Even with Voldemort gone."

Snape stiffened – almost imperceptibly – at the mention of the evil wizard's name, but made a dismissive noise, gesturing for Hermione to move down into the lab.

Pushing her questions and thoughts aside, Hermione continued down the staircase, which opened into the lab itself. Much like the study, the basement laboratory looked as if its furnishings has been simply transplanted from the lab at Spinner's End. This room was a little smaller, but very familiar, down to the doors that lead to the study and storeroom.

Recalling that Snape had spent the majority of his life inside the castle, she supposed it made sense that Snape would surround himself with elements of it. In a sad way, the thought was strangely touching. Hermione felt a pang of empathy for Snape; from what Lupin had said, she knew that in childhood Snape's life had not been easy – and no matter how much time she'd spent in Hogwarts, no matter how much she loved the castle and its inhabitants, it had never been _home _ in the same way that her parents' house was. She suspected that Hogwarts was Snape's first realhome, and knowing how tormented he had been during his school years, that was a very uncomfortable thought. At any rate, it made some of Snape's harsh demeanor make more sense. Compiled with the _reason _that he was in possession of this tent, it was nearly heartbreaking.

"This is very well-made," Hermione said admiringly after she inspected the two adjoining rooms.

Snape made no reply, but merely watched her as she walked around the already-familiar space.

"Use the rest of the afternoon as you see fit," he said at length, as he turned back to the staircase. "Tomorrow we will begin in earnest. I expect you to have a comparison of different alterations to the standard Invigorating Draught ready by morning." With this, he vanished up the steps.

Returning to her own room, Hermione pulled her shrunken bags out of her pocket, returning them to normal size and beginning to put them away. As she had no bookshelf, Hermione stored as many books as would fit in one row on her desk, leaving the rest until she could ask Snape about where best to store them. She stored her clothes and other essentials as well, settling in quickly and trying to imprint on her mind that this was not a brief vacation, but rather where she would be living for quite some time. It might be the Muggle in her, but the idea of living in a tent – even one as well-appointed as this one – seemed to be one that she had a hard time wrapping her mind about.

With most of what she'd brought neatly tucked away, Hermione pulled out her camera, taking a picture to eventually send home.

She laid back on her bed, enjoying the soft glow of light from the outside wall. The bed hangings were a very pale, creamy gold, and the sheets were striped in white and cream. With walls and floor in the same dark paneling as the rest of the tent-house and a brown-and-gold rug on the floor, the room had a very warm, earthy feel to it. Hermione felt that it would be easy to get used to this room.

After relaxing in her room for a quarter of an hour, Hermione reluctantly pulled herself off of her bed, changed out of the Muggle clothes that she'd worn for their walk out, and headed into the study, bringing books, parchment, and a quill with her to study up on Invigorating Draughts.

She worked in lazy comfort for almost an hour before Snape came into the room.

"Where are your notebooks?" he asked, and though his tone was amicable enough, his eyes were sharp.

"Oh, in my room," Hermione said, rising as if to retrieve them.

"Did I not say they were to be with you at all times?" Snape demanded, seating himself in the far corner of the room.

"But – they're in my _room_. A few feet away," Hermione responded.

"_All times_," Snape repeated, pulling a book, seemingly at random, off the shelf and beginning to read. He did not look up as Hermione meekly left the room, retrieved her notebooks, and returned.

Hoping that this satisfied her teacher, Hermione returned to her studies.

Time stretched on as the light coming from the canvas siding deepened into a ruddy shade and began to fade. Just as Hermione was preparing to do something about the waning light, lights in the wall sconces lit themselves. _I love magic_, she thought happily, and wondered if she'd ever get over the sense of wonder that even the simplest pieces – or maybe _especially _the simplest pieces – of magic could instill in her. She rather hoped not.

As she continued writing, Snape left the room, and Hermione could soon hear movement in the kitchen, which was followed by the smell of soup and warm bread. She quickly finished her paper, rolling up her parchment and returning books to their proper places before wandering over to the kitchen.

She found Snape already seated and eating, while on the counter next to the stove there was an empty bowl and plate. Gratefully inhaling the savory smell of stew, Hermione filled both and then rummaged through the cupboards and coldbox until she found a cup and water to put in it. She sat down, feeling unaccountably awkward in the silence.

Although she hadn't noticed it earlier, a piece of the canvas wall had been rolled down, revealing an insect screen and a view of the outside world. Hermione gazed out at the Irish dusk as she ate.

"The stew is wonderful," she said appreciatively after long moments of silence.

"Can you cook?" Snape asked by way of response.

"Not extravagantly," Hermione replied, "but I can handle simple things. I'm best with breakfast foods," she added.

Snape nodded, rising and clearing his plate.

"Make yourself useful come morning, then," he said, and he left the room.

"Good night, Professor," Hermione called after him, but she received no response. She realized belatedly that she hadn't asked him where to store her books. Just as she stood to go after him, however, she heard what she assumed was his door shut, so she settled back down to finish her supper.

Later that night, after reading and studying for a while longer after dinner, Hermione sat on her bed, frowning at her notebooks.

"_Accio_ charm bracelet," she said, lifting her wand and being rewarded by the sight of a little silver chain racing toward her from the bathroom. Catching it, she set it down on the bed beside her. It had been a birthday present from her mother last year, but she had never tracked down any charms to go on it, so it remained adorned with a solitary silver cat figure and nothing else. After a few moments of concentration, mumbling, and half-hearted gestures, Hermione straightened herself, lifting her wand authoritatively.

After a string of spells, Hermione sat back, holding her newly decorated charm bracelet and smiling with satisfaction. Evenly spaced around the length of the bracelet were her three notebooks, shrunken, coloured silver, and fixed closed. She unclasped one, which returned it to its normal state, although it had a small clasp at the very top of the spine. Happy that that half of the process worked, she re-attached the book, which left it looking once more like an unremarkable charm.

Feeling quite pleased with herself, Hermione readied for bed, taking a luxurious bath and being grateful that, unlike the Weasley's tent, this tent was equipped with separate bathrooms.

Setting her watch's alarm to wake her up in time to have breakfast ready at a decent hour, Hermione crawled into her new bed, snuggling under the covers against the chill of the night. The sheets smelled of lavender and spices, and it was with great comfort that Hermione drifted off into sleep. She was too tired to think further of the implications of Dumbledore leaving this tent for Snape - essentially admitting that he was damning the man. Her last thought, then, was that she ought to have written to her friends and parents, but she was too far gone to care. Perhaps she'd have time for it come morning, she reasoned, before burrowing deeper into her covers and letting go of consciousness.

* * *

And there you have it. To those of you who are disappointed that it's not a little two-sleeper Muggle tent; I'm sorry. I don't think there's any way at all that that would be plausible.

I hope that the explanation of how Snape came to have this tent satisfies people who feel like Snape wouldn't have ordinarily owned this, or certainly not a tent of such luxury. Dumbledore knew that what he was asking Snape to do was risky, and knew that Snape's name might never be cleared, and he gave the man a place to run away to, essentially.

For anyone wondering why the Portkey cost Snape nothing, it's because the entire Department of Transportation shares a salary, and makes most of its revenue through the rental of brooms and the distribution of Floo powder – if they charged for making portkeys, it would likely lead to a lot of people making unauthorized portkeys, which would be hazardous. So the wizard running portkeys gets paid from excess sales of other branches of the department, and portkey travel is regulated. If anyone doesn't care in the slightest why I made portkey travel free, that's fine – but it's the kind of thing that might bother some fanatic like myself if there was no reason for it.

To those of you who loved the history in the last update – there'll be plenty more! To those of you who hated it – there'll be plenty of stuff that *isn't* like that, I promise. 3

So! Until next time, my dears.  
I hope you enjoyed reading this installment and are looking forward to things to come. Please leave a review to let me know what you think – I pretty much live for review notifications. ;D

UPDATE: HUUUUGE THANKS to a wonderful anon reviewer for pointing out that I failed to finish a sentence! The furniture in Snape's house was neatly draped in dustcloths, not neatly...


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